The land here undulates, gentle hills set against the blue sky in the long-awaited sunshine. In the distance, I can clearly see the spires of the city of Norwich.
In one of our fields, an avenue of mature oaks rises proud. Each tree is wrapped in ivy, like a scarf warming its trunk. Our roving flock of sheep has moved on to new pastures, but signs of their time here remain – they have nibbled all ivy leaves within reach, leaving a labyrinth of thick woody stems exposed, stripped of greenery. Tufts of white wool hang from the lattice of ivy stems, perfect to softly line a nest.
Tucked into the ivy crevices and the rough bark of the oak are hundreds of common garden snails. More shells than I can count. Dozens of tiny babies, the smallest only the size of a matchhead, are stuck to larger adults and crammed into the tiniest nooks and crannies as if they will be there for ever. A gathering of snails is known as an escargatoire, a rout or a hood.
The snails are hibernating here on the sheltered side of the tree to escape the worst of the cold, resting dormant until spring. Their bodies contain a high percentage of water, so a hard frost can easily kill. They like this part of the farm. Lime was added to the land here for many years to make it more alkaline for sugar beet production. It means the soil is calcium-rich, which helps the snails build strong, thick shells.
It puzzles me why snails gather collectively – they don’t really share warmth or appear to communicate like mammals or birds. Maybe it’s just the safety of numbers. The snails wedged under others are less likely to be predated than those on the edges. Beneath the tree, the ground is crunchy with broken shells: remnants of those eaten, maybe by a shrew or song thrush.
Then, a flash of white chest and lissom, black-tipped tail. A stoat appears and vanishes, barely perceptible at the periphery of my vision. I am surrounded by life that is fast, and life that is slow; things happening in their own time.
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