When I asked my colleague Caroline to look at something on my iPad at work today she asked, “Its not another picture of a bog, is it?” (It wasn’t but here’s one now).

Creel, tweed, stack: echoes of the peatlands live on (doggedly) within our lives.

Billy and stack of children.

Moor lines.

Stacks of shields on Trajan’s column. Joe has asked if he can have a tortoise.

 

Book of matches. Naw, they are. Matchboxes shaped like books.

Peaty window display, @WhiskyCastle whisky shop, Tomintoul.

The lichens on the moss have that #FridayFeeling.

I disturbed this little cranefly on the moor and off it flew only to be snared in a spider’s web on the cut peat bank. What should I do? I was responsible for it fleeing from a place where it appeared to be perfectly safe and as a result it now seemed to be in mortal danger. What of the spider? Both cranefly and, presumably, the absent spider were in an existential situation – being eaten in the cranefly’s case and the need to eat in the spider’s.  I (I believed) was not.

As the cranefly was in the most immediate peril (though the spider may later have starved) I felt a duty toward the cranefly as my direct action led to its entrapment. The spider may not even have existed or have abandoned this web, the cranefly may have wrestled itself free but I decided to release it from the web and off we both soared, it out into the moor and the burden on my conscience released, a tiny weight off my mind.

Being read ‘A Red, Red Rose’ on Valentine’s Day.❤️💕