Muckthwaite, Friday 23 February, 2007
It's been a while since I mused gently over wonder of natural
world and outdoors, mostly because main consequence of my attempt to
prevent global warming were substantial bill at local glazier. But
that were the last thing on my mind as I sat with my back against my
favourite rounded boulder on edge of Muckthwaite Moor and drank in
the last dregs of weak winter sunshine.
A tousled sea of frost-burned heather lapped against my booted
feet, tendrils like Medusa's locks imploring him as made moor, to
cast kindly light upon them. Sheep heavy with their winter fleece
lolled in the distance and on the skyline, a brooding vulture tore
into the carcass of a lost goat.
Aye, the great circle of life, I thought to myself drinking in the
solid, real feel of the place like a jar of Muckthwaite's finest ale.
The moors are honest and real, I say. You know what you're getting -
mutton, heather and a smattering of sheep poo.
How has man, I mused, overreached himself so far. Travelled so far
from his roots? How have we built a world where wars can be fought
for what seem like such petty things? Oil, land, a pair of woollen
socks even? Sometimes, on my rare visits to big town, I wonder how it
would have looked before man came along with his tarmacced roads and
red-brick houses? Before man tore down the trees and flattened the
hills and crags? Raped the land and dressed it in an alien cladding
of stone and greyness and golf courses.
I suppose many of you will be expecting some smart arse remark
now, some witty about turn, but you'll not get it. Leastways not
until next week. For now Alfred Todger is at one with the world. I
took out my new-fangled digital camera and as the last dregs of the
sun dribbled over the edge of t'moor, I captured the moment forever.
Tha never knows, it might be worth a pair of socks I thought...
Alfred Todger
