R. Cadwallader Smith

The Heather Hills

In some parts of our land are great open tracts of moorland where, for mile after mile, one may wander over a rough carpet of heather or ling. Moors such as those, and immense forests, once covered the larger part of Great Britain. Then came a time when the forests were felled. Fields, roads, villages, and towns gradually took their place; for, where the trees grew, was soil suitable for cultivation.

But the moorland has no such soil. At great trouble and expense some of it has been made fit for crops, and the wet parts drained and planted. Much still remains, However, the happy home of the lovely heather, and of the free moorland dwellers whose ways we will study later on.

Scrape the soil on some of our moors, and at once you feel the hard, solid rock. Here and there, indeed, it shows through, and nothing can grow but a few tufts of that strange plant called lichen. Swept by the keen wind, and having but a thin, dry soil, the rocky uplands offer no home for plants. On the lower parts we find a deeper soil; but this, too, is loose and peaty, and so porous  that it is always thirsty. Here the springy heather is happy enough, and quite at home; like the Arab tribes of the desert, it knows how to squeeze a living where others would perish.

The word moor,  however, really has nothing to do with dryness; it is of the same origin as our words marsh, morass,  and mire. And many a moor will remind you, before you have gone far, that the name is well given. The dry heath-land suddenly changes. Green beds of moss appear, amid rushes and tussocks of coarse grass; and then, unless you take heed, your feet sink into black mire!

In such places the surface is like a wet sponge, even under the summer sun. And after winter rains the deep, slimy bog is dangerous. "But," you may ask, "why doesn't the water sink and drain away?" The reason is that there is a hard, tight mass down below, that neither moisture nor plant roots can enter. This dense mass, or layer, is not always of rock or clay, as we might expect. It is often formed of iron and sand, pressed together in a solid bed.

In the course of time all the iron in this light, moorland soil sinks; it meets a denser layer, and there it rests. Then the soil above it fills with water, and remains full. A bog is formed, and that part of the moor will grow bog-plants of many kinds, but nothing else.

If plants could speak, I think those of the wild moorlands would have much to say. Theirs is a hard life. They are like those hardy pioneers who succeed in living in wildernesses, where less hardy men die. There is no protection on the open moor; no shelter from the scorching summer sun nor the fierce, bleak winter wind. And the soil has no store of food for the roots.

Look at the common Heather (or, as many call it, Ling), with its tiny leaves. They have no stalks, and we notice that their edges are tightly rolled back. The leaves are crowded together, and the whole plant is tough and wiry. We might compare it with a poor man, living as best he can; he cannot afford luxuries, and the Heather cannot afford the soft, wide, juicy leaves and stalks of the plants of the rich meadows.

The Heather must spread as little surface as it can to the sun's rays and the bleak, drying winds of the open moor. It shrinks from them, as it were; and the whole plant plainly shows us those dodges by which moorland dwellers "make the best of a bad job."

In late summer, moors and hill-sides are painted a lovely pinkish-purple with the Heather flowers. Near the end of each woody stem is a spike of little bells. Outside each bell is a calyx,  or covering, of four purplish parts, known as sepals. They are crisp, like tissue paper.

Everyone knows the delightful smell of these pretty bells, filling the warm summer air with fragrance. It attracts the bees from far and wide, to sip nectar from the delicate cups. They make it into honey, rich and thick, with a flavour of its own. On a day of sunshine the drowsy hum of the busy insects fills the air; looking up, you may see a constant stream of them as they come for more spoils, or fly back by the shortest air-path to their hives, laden with treasure.

There is no sight more beautiful than the purple moors where, for mile after mile, the Heather holds sway. It seems to love best a light soil of peat over sand, where its roots are thickly matted. You wade knee-deep in its wiry stems, which make a safe hiding-place for bird and beast. Even after the seed is shed the flowers still cling; they remain through the autumn and into the winter.

Growing with the Heather or Ling, and almost as common in some parts, is another kind known as the Fine-leaved Heath or Bell Heather, a bushy plant with very tough stems and narrow leaves. Its clusters of flowers are a gay crimson-purple.

Coming to a damper part of the moor, we find the beautiful Cross-leaved Heath. It sometimes grows among patches of tall Heather, but prefers a moister home as a rule. You may gather a fine bunch of this heath before the Heather's purple spikes are at their best. Its flowers grow in a cluster of pale, waxlike, pink bells, all facing in the same direction. You notice that at the mouth of each bell are four pointed teeth, and hidden inside is a ring of yellow stamens. The leaves grow in fours on the stem and are placed cross-wise—hence the name Cross-leaved Heath; they are small and pointed, with an edging of hairs.

Cross-Leaved Heath

Though the heathers and heaths own most of the moorland, there are many other plants to be found. The most interesting ones live in boggy ground, but we shall look at those in another lesson. Gorse, furze, or whin, and the lovely broom grow here and there. On the hill-sides are great olive-green patches of the Whortleberry or Bilberry. Its pretty, luscious berries attract grouse, blackgame, and many another bird. On northern moors the black Crowberry offers another important harvest for the moorland dwellers.