Gone

In a back corner of my garden there is a special spot I think of as the point. It is a small promontory of the terrace that overlooks the countryside. From there I can see the ranks of hills leading up to the mountains. There is Mount Hutt, the top of Ben More, and most of the Torlesse Range.

In the foreground is a paddock that has become as familiar to me as my own face. The river flowed through here a hundred years ago, until it moved to the other side of the valley during a massive flood. It left behind high banks and a meandering hollow, landforms that changed with the light, the weather, the pasture growth, and the variety of animals that grazed there.

Yesterday, while I was in the mountains, a man in a grader came and skilfully transformed the paddock. He worked until nightfall, and was on the job again this morning at first light. After he left I went to the point to see what he had done. The paddock is greatly improved, with gently flowing slopes and curves. It will be a much more efficient space, in keeping with the rest of the well managed farm.

But I no longer know the place. Gone are the gullies where the river once ran. Gone is the nesting site that masked lapwings have protected for years. Gone is the row of curious mounds shaped by the river long ago. Gone is the scrape where hares sunned themselves on spring mornings. Gone is the long steep bank where generations of lambs gambolled at sunset.