Dry stane wet

It dawned on me today that much of my 3 mile walk to Inverawe is along the side of an old dry stane dyke. It's covered, in places shrouded, in a luxuriant, glistening layer of many mosses. I wonder who are the descendants of the men and boys who laboured with horse and cart to bring themselves and the stones here. It must have occupied them in the winters for years.
In contrast to the lush green of the moss, the bracken is bronzed and shrunken - easier to see a couple of roe deer and a bigger stag. He lost the battle of the stare and clambered up the bank in speedy silence much more gracefully, much quicker and quieter than I could have done. There is something topsy-turvy in the animal hierarchy.