Notes from the valley

 I've had Moles on the mind of late. As a child, I eagerly read books about anthropomorphic animals, as many as I could get my hands on. The Redwall books by Brian Jacques were a nice compliment to the embryonic stages of tabletop wargaming with my father, pitting Badger against Weasel (and many more besides) in a medieval-type high fantasy setting.  Watership Down followed, as did of course Wind in the Willows. When Moles did feature, invariably they were worriers, loners, reverent, led by 'better' animals.  Earlier this week, I finally finished reading Duncton Wood by William Horwood, a feat I was unable to accomplish as a child. Perhaps I was put off by the intimidating size of the book and the adult themes inside. It is a stone-cold classic (pun intended for those who have read the novel), that follows the lives of a group of Moles living in the Duncton Wood system. Their stories of love and loss soon stretch to other systems, culminating in an unforgettable trek to Sia

 Although it was not quite the Christmas we wanted here in the valley, the rain has bought its own gift. A grim vision of the future, perhaps. But right now, the patch is peaking and is alive with birds, and for that I am thankful. On Christmas eve, it was a job to navigate away from the village due to standing water that had left abandoned cars and undelivered presents in its wake. The rain had been persistent and unforgiving, the ground, saturated. Over on the marsh, where there had once been a muddy puddle amongst the pasture, a city had sprung from the leak, with a plethora of new occupants noisily laying claim to a patch of sodden marsh. Wigeon and Black-headed Gulls in their thousands now wheeled and whistled over and amongst the newly formed pools, accompanied by smaller numbers of Teal and Shoveler. A flock of two hundred-strong Lapwing enjoyed feeding on the less damp spots where green grass was still exposed, and thrown in for good measure have been a couple of Ruff, the firs