Lying on the moor (suitably waterproofed) with your eyes at insectivorous sundew level it seems like a tropical jungle in its lushness and variety. Noticing my cap has rolled off, I am surprised by how dull it now seems compared to the moorland’s summer bloom and how lacking in variety yet these were the very things that led me to pick this particular tweed in the ‘Lewis Looms’ shop in Stornoway- art has imitated nature but cannot match it.
Standing on the moor and looking down you marvel at the variety of the tiny plants and mosses, lichens and grasses that form its intricate colour and texture; there is reason in the placement of each, dependent on the nature of the ground- heather on the driest places, bog grasses on the semi-dry, sphagnums on the wettest. Where no vegetation can flourish the watery pools, crevices and openings reveal glimpses into the depths of the peaty morass; shapes and objects can be vaguely made out- beneath the rippling feet of the water boatmen and pondskaters- the blurred furriness of ‘drowned kittens’ moss, leaves, grass stalks, twigs, down to unseeable depths, mysterious caverns and passages in the unsolid mass of the ancient peat. Standing in itself is a timed activity as you gradually or quickly, depending on the part of the bog you are on, sink.
God-like you stamp your feet and the whole surface earthquakes in shivers.
Robin A Crawford 