The ford is a problem. We shuffle across the Rhenass River, water an inch from the top of our wellies. Somehow free from squelchy socks, I ponder when somebody last walked this lane. This is one of the island’s most isolated upland areas, and we cannot see a single house, person or car in any direction. Above us stands Greeba Mountain. At its base, the Blaber bog. This muted landscape is desolate yet alluring.
Across the valley, cattle graze old pastures ringed with gorse. Despite popular misconceptions, gorse is in a fact valuable habitat. It attracts the thrushes we hear in the distance, slowly turning it into woodland by the passage of berries through their back passage. They can effortlessly do what we impatient humans seem only capable of doing with plastic tubes and cable-ties.
