The moor is cold and still. From the bleak tors topped with lumps of granite creased like fossilised dough to rocky valleys and bristling slopes of gorse, it waits for spring sunshine to warm its bony back. Save for a few birds animating the frostbitten hedgerows, my garden on the western flank of Dartmoor stares back at me blankly. Yet there is life to be found, taking refuge under plant pots on the veranda.
Beneath every lifted pot is a disc of dampness, dark as a vinyl record stencilled on to the flagstone. And sheltering within each moist circle, an assortment of invertebrates: slugs plump as black olives, centipedes, beetles, earwigs. Most are slow to react, skulking off bleary-eyed in search of cover. But a species among them, similar to a large flea, rapidly pings away the moment it is exposed to sunlight.
