Winter in the swinging bog

Wybunbury Moss I squelch among bushes and clawing briars, stopping to admire the chocolate-brown bulrushes

On this raw winter's day a scalpel-sharp wind slices across my face as I head down the ancient steps in St Chad's churchyard, each one created from gravestones, all slippery with leaves. And there it is in the distance, a bowl-like depression, wreathed in mist: Wybunbury Moss, a national nature reserve famed for its floating peat bog carpeted in sphagnum moss and its invertebrate populations.

I open a wooden gate and walk into a marshy field. The wind snatches at my woollen hat and bullies me down the hill. I pass a huddle of sheep, bleating pitifully, drizzle now pearling their grubby fleeces. A heron takes off on silent, silvery wings. A fetid stink hangs in the air. I squelch among bushes and clawing briars, between reeds, stopping to admire the tall, velvety, chocolate-brown bulrushes, standing stalk-stiff. In spring, when their heads split open, the air is filled with seeds; and in early summer, its flower looks like a cat's tail, hence its American name, cattail. Today, they remind me of hot dogs on sticks.