The Guardian/1920/07/23/Country Diary

21.

Sundews are ruddy on the peat-bog, each fleshy leaf covered with sensitive hairs, ready to curl over and grip any foolish fly which is tempted to their sticky exudations. Yellow asphodels stand thick – thicker than on a Lancashire moss, – and the green stars of butterwort are everywhere. The wheatear "chacks" as it flits from one grey stone to another, and the linnet twitters as it flies up to the honeysuckle, blooming in a thick cluster on the steep crag.

Suddenly a deep note draws the eye from the plants towards the sky. High overhead two long-necked, long-winged, greylag geese are winging towards the stone-littered mountains across the loch. These, the only true wild geese which nest in Britain, have their sanctuary in the wilds of the deer forest, close to a tarn where the black soil is pitted by the feet of the stags and hinds that come to drink. In winter we may see a few greylags in our English estuaries; or a passing bird may halt upon some inland water, but the true home, where the yellow goslings are reared, is on the Hebridean bog. It is good to see the great birds flying over, to hear their deep-toned voices mingling with the mewing calls of the ever-restless gulls.

T.A.C.