The only signs of life in the snow were the sheep and a pair of ravens flying carefully past on bent wings. The fearsome East wind blew rags of purple-grey cloud across the hill, sometimes bringing visibility down to less than forty yards, and my grand plan of lying out to spy for a fox fell flat on its face. Grouse clucked in the middle distance, but otherwise it was a foul, bitter day on the hill.
And then as I came down off the glen through the neighbouring estate, there was a monstrous great ginger fox sitting in the myrtle with his tail tucked over his feet, eyeballing me from sixty yards away.
Bog Myrtle & Peat 