Sky burial

I didn't have to go far for today's blip. I found this recently-dead mole lying at the edge of a field close by, unblemished and supine as if embracing the element in which it spent so little of its life. (It occurred to me that if we, who live above the ground, are interred in it in it when we die, should it not follow that subterranean creatures be exposed to the air when their life ends?)

The mouldywarp (the old name means earth-tosser) is supremely adapted for its tunnelling way of life being cylindrical in shape with a short plushy coat that does not lie in any one direction; massive spade-like forepaws with two thumbs making 6 digits in total (may be visible if viewed LARGE; tiny, almost sightless eyes; and a super-sensitive snout replete with sensory nerve ending and hairs for proprioception in the dark. The tail hairs provide a similar form of radar at the rear.

Moles are solitary most of the year. It used to be said that all moles are males until spring when half turn female. It's only in the short breeding season that they abandon celibacy and briefly hook up - the rest of the time their sex organs are inactive and it is hard to distinguish male from female. So, the triumphant Jacobite (Catholic) toast to"The gentleman in black velvet!" (after a riding accident caused by a mole hill led to the death of the Protestant William of Orange in 1702 ) may have been falsely ascribed.

Talpa europaea lives almost entirely upon the earthworms that drop into the tunnels and may store these in a larder them for long periods by immobilizing them with a bite. They run each worm through their paws to squeeze out the earthy innards before consuming it.

Farmers and gardeners hate moles for the way they undermine the ground. The mole-catcher was an essential part of rural life and the tradition has not completely died out. There is still a Guild of British Molecatchers which provides training and accreditation. (Ireland has no moles.) One of John Clare's best known poems is called The Mole Catcher. The first two verses set the scene.

When melted snow leaves bare the black-green rings,
And grass begins in freshening hues to shoot,
When thawing dirt to shoes of ploughmen clings,
And silk-haired moles get liberty to root,
An ancient man goes plodding round the fields
Which solitude seems claiming as her own,
Wrapt in greatcoat that from a tempest shields,
Patched thick with every colour but its own.

With spuds and traps and horsehair string supplied,
He potters out to seek each fresh-made hill;
Pricking the greensward where they love to hide,
He sets his treacherous snares, resolved to kill;
And on the willow sticks bent to the grass,
That such as touched jerk up in bouncing springs,
Soon the little hermit tries to pass,
His carcass on the gibbet hings.

These mole gibbets were a common sight in the countryside once and can still occasionally be seen today - here's one.

For a happier look at this charming creature there's a nice little video.