“…The dowie dichis war all donk and wait,
The law vallis floodit all with spait.
The plane stretis and every hie way
Full of fluschis, dubbis, myre and clay,
Laggerit leys wallowit fernis schew,
Broun muris kithit their wissinyt mossy hewe.”

Lines From ‘Eneados: The Prologue of the Sevynt Buik.
Gavin Douglas (c1471-1522)

Approximate English translation runs:

The dismal ditches were all dank and wet,
The low valley flooded all with spate.
The plain streets and very highway,
Full of marshes, boggy pools, mire and clay,
In mired pastures shrivelled ferns show,
Brown moors showed their wizened mossy hue.

 

‘Mountain’ (1982) by Sigurdur Gudmundsson. Culture House, Reykjavik.

Obsessed? I can’t help it if the St.Stephan’s Day biscuits are stacked like slabs of peat.

Merry Christ-moss. Fruiting sphagnums, Bankhead Moss.

“Rudolf with your nose so bright, won’t you pull my [peat sledge] tonight…”

Yule logs, Bankhead Moss.

It’s not just midwinter that’s bleak. June, Isle of Lewis.

Midwinter sunrise, south maltings, Newton of Falkland.

Gathering winter fuel. Peat stacked at Freuchie Garden Centre- “Ye cannae beat a peat heat.”

Underfoot the peat feels different. It is muddy, squelchy, sucking your at boot, trying to grasp you, draw you in- a beseeching, tempting but deceptive lover that lures with sensuous, smooth caressing. False solidity gradually liquifies and using your own bodyweight sinks you deeper into itself smothering until you are overwhelmed, suffocated. Siren.