Country diary: North Derbyshire
It was another brilliant, cloudless day with barely the slightest zephyr to disturb the naked twigs on the tallest trees. Here I was, on top of the green ridge, with the full sun in my eyes. But when I turned away to the west and north-west, the broad frieze of the brown, winter moorlands stood sharp as cut glass under the palest blue firmament half a dozen miles distant.
Something, though, was disturbing that far skyline. It was as if a watercolourist like, say, Vivian Pitchforth had passed a wet brush across the top of the moors to besmirch the horizon with an alien, beige stroke. At that higher elevation there must have been a slight northerly breeze to drift the smoke from half a dozen moortop fires. It was an ideal day for this seasonal heather burning, the better to encourage new spring growth for the resident red grouse. The fires were seated up near Back Tor and out across the mighty spaces of the Midhope Moors in South Yorkshire, their smoke screen sliding south across the top of Totley Moss and on by the Eastern Edges overlooking the Derwent valley quite a distance.
As I went along through the silent, sunlit fields I became aware of what sounded like a cock pheasant with a sore throat. Standing and peering over the adjacent hedge I soon espied a large dog fox meandering in the warm sunshine, uttering these low calls. Then a pair of magpies flew down from an oak tree, dive bombing Reynard and soon driving him into the next field from where he slunk off, still mumbling his disgust.
The sun was now dropping to the horizon, the light turning through lemon to gold. As I climbed the valley-side another sound caused me to look heavenwards and see a giant skein of wild geese at great height, heading towards the setting sun as they sang their raucous evensong.
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