4 days ago
20
Days of torrential rain have yet to drain from this broad ridge at the westernmost edge of Dartmoor. The wide path to the top of Gibbet Hill, with views of Wheal Betsy, the nearby abandoned mine, is glazed with puddles, and I am forced to hop between tussocks of sedge to avoid treading ankle-deep in the liquid earth.
This is my favourite season on Dartmoor – a time when it most feels like a moor: wet, muddy, bleak, empty. The wind-bent grass and dark scuffs of peat appear devoid of life. But winter walks promise fleeting encounters with a species that always takes you by surprise: snipe.
These birds are the “stomp rockets” of boggy moorland. A heavy footstep sends them hurtling skywards like a child’s toy which, with a stamp on an inflated pad, launches a foam rocket into the air.
I never spot a snipe on the ground before it takes flight. These wary waders, perfectly camouflaged with mottled brown plumage, wait until the last moment as you approach. Then they suddenly take off, zigzagging high and uttering a rasping call, only coming back down some way away.
In his 1983 poem Snipe, the late poet laureate Ted Hughes perfectly described how, on a sodden walk, one “rips itself up from the marsh‑quake” with “bowed head, jockey shoulders” as it “slashes a wet rent” through the downpour.
Snipe only give you a second or two to work out what they are as they race off into the mist, but their most conspicuous feature is the long straight bill, like a conductor’s baton. About 75,000 pairs breed in the UK during spring and summer, with the greatest concentrations in the uplands of northern Britain. Over the colder months, visiting snipe from Europe push numbers above 1 million, and they are more widely spread.
Wetland reserves and estuaries offer the most reliable views, but nothing beats a taste of the unpredictable, venturing off the beaten track in areas damp under foot. One could wander past snipe without ever knowing, or you might get lucky and step close enough to detonate this missile of the mires – a startling explosion of life. Muddy boots and wet socks are a price well worth paying.
