Such rain as you’d hardly believe, and the sheep swept like dead leaves into the gullies and rushes. They’re miserable, and the water runs off them in spate. Cattle stand back in the whins and the pine trees bend and creak above them. There’s nowhere to gather steam or a cosy fug of comfort – it’s all bare and slittery with the wind like a knife through the dyke stones.
It’s tempting to go amongst them and see if they’re ok; I know that I would not be happy on a night like this. But if I went to see them, I know they’d stand and shuffle round. Any pouch of carefully cradled warmth would be blown away to ripple across the hill like thrums of down. Far better to leave them lying in the slots they’ve made. If there is shelter, they’ll have found it. I could go and pity them, or I could recall that they were born to ride a storm like this.
Bog Myrtle & Peat 