Get all your news in one place.
100’s of premium titles.
One app.
Start reading
The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Environment
Julie Armstrong

Winter in the swinging bog

Rare spiders have been found in sphagnum moss.
Rare spiders have been found in sphagnum moss. Photograph: Alamy

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.

Mud sucks on my boots; I slither and slide towards the schwingmoor, the “swinging bog” where, throughout the year, cotton sedge, the insectivorous sundew and poisonous bog-rosemary can be found. Three specimens of a rare and minute species of spider, Carorita limnaea, have been discovered here too, by painstakingly sifting through the sphagnum moss: one male and two females. I shiver, too cold to remove my gloves. Maybe I’ll try my luck in the summer.

Wybunbury Moss is a dangerous place to walk; it is only one metre thick in places, and beneath it a hidden lake, 13 metres deep. Access is restricted to the raised wooden walkways that lead me round the edges, yet there are still fascinating views of this waterlogged landscape, sour-green, tired-brown and scummy. A fallen branch from a silver birch tree is being swallowed ever so slowly by the bog. I hear a lone blackbird’s alarm call, and move on.

The drizzle turns to heavy rain, a sign: No Access Beyond This Point. I turn back, mindful of keeping to the path.

• The photograph on this article was changed on 6 January 2016. The picture used previously did not show sphagnum moss as suggested by the caption.

Sign up to read this article
Read news from 100’s of titles, curated specifically for you.
Already a member? Sign in here
Related Stories
Top stories on inkl right now
One subscription that gives you access to news from hundreds of sites
Already a member? Sign in here
Our Picks
Fourteen days free
Download the app
One app. One membership.
100+ trusted global sources.