A dense, early morning fog blanketed the moorland valley. From my garden I could just make out submerged shapes of scattered stone buildings, soft silhouettes of trees skirting the hillside, the pale disc of the rising sun like a pill dissolving in the mist. I stood and waited, listening hard for the sound that had brought me outside.
Then it came again, cutting through the damp air, two notes repeated with the rhythm of a heartbeat: Cuck-oo. Cuck-oo. Cuck-oo.
