Vulcan and I spotted slate smoke signals, rising high above a copse of aged pines this morning, on our ritual climb to the cattle grid. Within living memory, this woodland was a paddock, where locals grew kale and potatoes for their families. At the end of WW2, local landowners were given grants to plant non-indigenous pine crops for use in the re-construction of the country. Now, sixty years on, these trees are rangy and well past their sell by date! The red clay, below their canopy, lies barren; acidic and inhospitable to our native flora and fauna. So now, with the promise of spring, pine incense permeates the woods, and neat stacks of timber punctuate the land.
And it's not only trees on the move! The field grass is holding an exhibition of finely tilled soil; molehills. The style and design of the individual mounds varies, according to their artistic influence, but there is no doubt that these palm sized creatures, with shovels for hands, shift soil speedily. During February, it's the amorous males who create the soil sculptures, digging an underground tunnel-system in search of a mate. Being a life-long fan of Moley's adventures in 'Wind in the Willows', I have tolerance for these tenacious little fellows. I'm grateful their help in the garden, showing a natural flair for the principles of Feng Shui they efficiently aerate our heavy clay soil and cleanse the soil of potentially troublesome grubs.
