For the past month I’ve been studying molehills. The focus of my investigations has been Sand Field, a rough pasture that was once part of a vast medieval deer park just south of the village. It all started last November. It was a crisp morning after gales. I’d paused to feel the sun’s weak warmth and heard a rustle in the grass. Already fleeing, a mole was little more than a glimpsed cylinder of fur and rippling muscle. I felt a rush of excitement – it was just the second I’d ever seen.
I’d almost forgotten this encounter. Then, returning last month, I stumbled – literally – on a fresh molehill. Instead of waiting a decade to bump into another mole, I thought, perhaps I should make some effort to understand them.
