MEMORIES OF A CHESHIRE MOOR
1884
AWAY to the north, hazy in the distance, a line of trees screened the quiet village of Carrington; the square tower of the church peeped above then. Eastward, still further away, were the tall Lombardy poplars of Ashton-on-Mersey, but between us and the trees stretched a level expanse of purple ling, a grouse moor, well stocked, within seven miles of the centre of Manchester. Hundreds, nay thousands, living within a radius of a few miles hardly knew of its existence, and certainly did not consider it worthy of a visit. To us as schoolboys it was paradise; the dread of the keeper's stick or of a sudden drop into a bog-hole added a spice of adventure to our visits. Merciful accident, a matter of levels, carried the railway through a cutting at the edge of the Moss; only the smoke of passing trains was visible, whilst the scarcity of houses within sight detracted from the idea of any considerable population.
The ling was thick and rank, its ancient stems inter-twisted in a maze, for little systematic burning had been undertaken for many years. As we tramped through masses, nearly waist-high, we flushed again and again the startled grouse. We too were startled at the whir; we thought of keepers and glanced round before hunting for the ruddy, well-protected eggs, whilst the cock bird, yards away, dropped after skimming the heather with bowed wings to give his warning: "Go back, go back, go back." The straight-cut drains, 4 or 5 feet deep, were often overhung and concealed by clumps of ling or bil-
93
