At the edge of the moor, there’s a knot of birch that over the years has become familiar to me – not for the trees themselves, but for the earth that nourishes them. Here the ground turns to a peaty gloop and the path braids as walkers explore different ways to keep their boots out of the mud. Not today, though. Today the ground is iron-hard and has been for a week, with daytime temperatures remaining at or below freezing. I can walk where I want. Freezing soil has lots of benefits, some of them magical. For example, the earth beneath my feet has become a kind of time machine, preserving
‘I wake up at night in fear of losing my home’
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