Brown Mustard Hills

Dartmoor, near Widdicombe-in-the-Moor (Photo: SP Tiley)

Brown Mustard Hills

by Laura Harrison McBride

Did you know Southwest England

stays green all year, most years? Fields

on the gentle slopes of southern Devon,

warmed by the sun (at times) and by

the Gulf Stream as it cuts round Ireland,

divided by deep green hedgerows

dotted with black bouquets of gorse

or naked trees, run out at some point.

That point, I think, is where Dartmoor

begins. Dartmoor, ancient landscape

luring settlers in the oldest times, now

luring tourists who annoy the Dartmoor

ponies, sometimes kill them by feeding

the docile creatures noxious stuff. And

sheep, also sometimes killed. Tourists

think the sheep are stupid.

Stupid tourists.

Sheep are smart, not stupid. They lie on

the hot tarmac of the roads

to get warm. Wouldn't you, after

a winter in raucous winds bumping over

Europe, the Channel, and on into your

sheltering hills, bringing borrowed Siberian

misery? Or buffeted for hours, often days,

by west winds from Canada, picking up

a bit of fresh iciness past Greenland,

Iceland, and forgetting to leave any in

the land across the Irish Sea. Overcoming,

in their haste to jump the Gulf Stream, all

the warmth built up in the calm days of

early winter. Sheep die from this

weather, but mostly from motorists

ignoring the 40 mph speed limit on

moor roads. Stupid of them. Not just for

the sheep. For their souls.

You can't kill a sheep with impunity. Everyone

knows that.

Three sheep Mums with twins, rare indeed (Drawing by Laura H. McBride)

The rushing tourists miss the gentle climb

up onto the plateaus

where the ancients built stone houses, topped

with brush. They miss the stone circles, some

visible from the road, obvious if you're going slow.

They miss the ant-like figures of hardy souls

climbing the tors because they can, because

from the top of a tor, you can see forever, and

no climbing gear is needed. Anyone can do it.

Well, almost. I haven't. Didn't when I could, now

I can't. Maybe some meditation, maybe that

will overcome the pains in old hips, hips insulted

in callow youth by riding horses too much, too long

and jumping too high too often. But damn, it

was fun. It was fun.

So I drive slowly, stop at pull-offs, get out for a

short walk, so I can see the transition of the

greenish grass near the car parks, to the brownish

turf where cows and sheep and ponies have

worked their way across it, and onward to

the upper slopes, the slopes that look like

lashings of brown mustard pushed up

into the verdigris hedgerows, sprung with

birdy trees—trees with berries—and gorse,

its odd-smelling golden blossoms

springing out whenever there is a day

of constant sun. Not often, not

in Devon.

I long for a ramble on those hills, even

without the satisfaction, once before I die,

of cresting a tor. I need to feel the short-cropped

sheep-covered grass of the turf on my bare feet.

Maybe Gaia would see fit to stop the pain, to

reverse the damage to my horse- and hubris-abused hips.

Whether or not the miracle sought by the

pilgrim will occur, some miracle will. Of

some sort. If you can stand barefoot

on Dartmoor and fail to sense the

millennia of humans who

have lived and died, herded sheep, left treasures

in hewn stone behind, then you need not

return. Dartmoor draws back the faithful,

those whose veins thrum, on the moor, to

the ancient rhythms of human life so

different from our own, and so much the same.

Work, rest, a little love, a little laughter, a little

sorrow, a little trouble, a departure to whatever

is next.

That's all. If you can live it near the brown mustard

hills, you will have all the solace you need,

any time you like.

Copyright 2019, Laura Harrison McBride