Hare h[a]unting

Harebells were a commonplace  late-summer sight in my childhood in the rough upland pasture that also supported hares. Both have dwindled as a result of more intensive farming  practices but one place I can be sure to find the flowers, if not the animals, is on St David's Head.

Heather and gorse blazed purple and gold  and when I reached the higher elevations there were harebells amongst them too, nodding on their fusewire stems,  blue as the eye of a Siamese cat.

Oddly perhaps harebells have been asscociated with witchery, just as witches were suspected of morphing into hares. Something to do with the wild moor and  the lonely heath as places of escape and danger...
It's easy to lose your bearings up here.