Towards midsummer, Kit Hill on our northern horizon turns green as new growth revives the faded heathland. Meadow buttercups waft through grassy verges beside the approach road, and, by the car park, foals lie on warm turf, overseen by placid mares which were brought here to graze back scrub and diversify vegetation. Former mine and quarry workings scar the granite outcrop, leaving burrows (heaps of mine waste) and dumps of hewn stone.
On the southern, exposed flank, overlooking the Tamar estuary and hazy sea, hollows and prospecting pits provide shelter for fresh leaves of holly, willow, thorn and birch, which poke through bramble, foxglove, and buckler and male ferns. Hard fern and tormentil brighten the turf between clumps of sprouting whortleberry and ling; paths sparkle with flecks of quartz. An adder is visible, basking in the sun. A cuckoo calls as it flies unseen across the rough land, somewhere between the beeches on the open hill, a stone enclosure guarding a dangerous shaft and the gaunt stack of South Kit Hill mine.
