On Easter Sunday morning, I ventured forth with an old friend (my x) out onto Brent Moor on the Southern slopes of Dartmoor to join the ponies and the little black-legged lambs and a few hardy individuals willing to brave the sub-zero conditions for a bracing pre-lunch walk.
We headed up the track which runs alongside the stream from Didworthy Bottom where we came across the scant remains of tin mine workings in a small sheltered clearing.
In one of the crumbling pieces of granite walling, the roots of an old tree are embedded between the stones and is distinctly human in form. I am wondering is the wall holding up the tree or the tree still holding the wall together? I suspect they are mutually dependent but some of the roots appear to be flailing around in search of somewhere to anchor themselves.
And some of the the boughs have grown heavy, twisting themselves into gnarled arcs and u bends.
The wind is threatening to chill us to the bone and tiny ice crystals begin blasting us like frozen sand particles. We don’t dally for long and once we reach the head of the dam, with the thought of a hearty lunch to prepare, we turn back to join the rest of the house party, vowing next time to come back with some drawing materials and fingerless mitts. I tuck a pristine tufted curl of lanolin-rich wool into my coat pocket mildly aware that I may be depriving some poor parent bird of some cosy nesting material.