It was a bitter morning, the sky grey, dull clouds heavy and bulbous, hung low almost touching the hill tops, keeping afloat by the mattress of air that sat between them. This winter has been a disappointment, little snow and far too mild to make any impression on the ground meant time had been spent wading along muddy paths, the soil turned almost liquid by the constant downpours and the passage of boots that were too truculent to stay clean, at home, in the dry environment. The fields cannot take anymore water with each downpour, each group of three or more days of rain, new streams that cascade down hillsides create new paths within the land. It makes me wonder if this is how all rivers are made. A drop of rain, running off a hillside, cutting away grass and soil, getting down to bedrock, then speeding on until the water hits an uphill section and by the natural laws of physics turns to the lowest point and continues its search for the sea.
The field we were slogging over had pockets of dry land interspersed with small lakes of waterlogged and cow dung laden water that swam with a green tinge and was oily on the surface. I wondered where the oil came from, the cows perhaps or some farm process that mixed effluent with lubrication oil? Why is it that country farms can contaminate land but not cities? We had passed by a hole that had been made using a mechanical digger. Chunks of metal and plastic sat at the bottom along with old fertiliser bags and the black bin liner wrapping used to encase silage. At some point it would be filled and then soil dropped over it and grass sown to hide its existence. How many are there in this field, how much industrial rubbish is buried in the landscape people call the countryside. And will these spots in hundreds of years time become a treasure trove for some digital archaeologists.