Life on the Moor We were spending the day up
on the moor. To the west we could see a range of mountains covered in snow, but where we were it was warm, and the mountain scene seemed unreal. A black-cock and grey- hen crossed the road, and set me wondering how nature has developed certain creatures so that they can survive a hard winter in a desolate place. The moor has not recovered from the recent snow. The heather is flattened and lifeless; the peat banks ooze and trickle with draining surface water. There is no life and no food as far as one can see, save for the odd patches of limp, fine grass. On such patches sheep and birds find their keep. They must search endlessly to obtain enough to sustain them each day, and their winter condition would make neither very tasty were they killed and brought to the table. The black game rose and fluttered on to a bank, from which they watched us with the alert eye that moor-birds have. We were warned to " Go back ! Go back !" by' the cock bird. Far off, a hill farmer had set fire to a gorse clump. The smoke made a pall in the sky, and in a little while we caught the scent. There is something very drowsy about the smoke from burning gorse. It came on a breeze that was cold, and drifted quickly away across the moor.
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