At every step my boots kick up white puffs of ash or snap burnt twigs of heather underfoot. The smell is what you would imagine from several acres of burnt moorland, like an intense garden bonfire. In the dust I spot a small invertebrate curled up and toasted, and scoop it up in my palm. Yesterday I had woken to images of this hilltop ablaze against the night sky. The top of Burbage is visible from several Sheffield suburbs and folk had got their phones out. Roads were closed as firefighters and volunteers tackled the flames in shifts. Now the last of them are packing up to leave and I’m able to inspect the damage.
This stretch of Burbage is old grouse moor in rehab. Much of it is leggy heather, but twigs of birch and rowan are poking out in places and there’s more bilberry than there used to be. Some brush has been cut back to reduce the fuel load. I find myself in a blackened drainage ditch, dug long ago to drain the moor and boost the heather. Now it’s plugged with loose stones to keep the ground wet. Alas, the dry weeks of May have left the peaty soil parched. A disposable barbecue has done the rest.
Stepping off the burnt area, the contrast is startling and instructive. Deep in the heather I spot a heath moth, and while I’m down there I notice beetles and spiders prospecting in the cooling ash. Catastrophe can also be opportunity. High overhead, half a dozen swifts are jagging back and forth, while a pair of meadow pipits tumble around each other close to the ground. I hope their nest escaped.
Heading home, I pass a trig point overlooking the burnt moor. A woman is painting it. I joke that the Ordnance Survey must have sent her. She laughs and explains that she’s painting out graffiti. “This place,” she says, as though speaking of a friend, “you know, if things aren’t right, you come here.” And I see her eyes have filled.
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