At the edge of the moor, there’s a knot of birch that over the years has become familiar to me – not for the trees themselves, but for the earth that nourishes them. Here the ground turns to a peaty gloop and the path braids as walkers explore different ways to keep their boots out of the mud. Not today, though. Today the ground is iron-hard and has been for a week, with daytime temperatures remaining at or below freezing. I can walk where I want.
Freezing soil has lots of benefits, some of them magical. For example, the earth beneath my feet has become a kind of time machine, preserving the foot and hoof prints of animals and people that came this way days ago. Among the prints are those of red deer; looking up, I see two hinds 50 metres away, breath condensing against the cold air. I’m tempted to ask: “Was this you?”
