Seldom Seen, But Much Noticed
Seldom Seen, But Much Noticed
A reflection on the Mole
Welcome to the first Field Note, a new series of “essaylets”1 that are short reflections on nature and ecology in the style of John Stewart Collis, author of the Worm Forgives the Plough and The Vision of Glory. These reflections aim to be fairly philosophical in nature, helping us to consider nature and ecology from, perhaps, a new perspective.
This essaylet is free for all. Future editions will be for paid subscribers.
It is a fact — not one that pleases me, mind you — but a fact nevertheless, that the majority of the creatures that surround me are ones I shall never see — let alone know their names. Whenever I am tending my garden crops and hold in my hands a clump of soil, I am holding an entire ecosystem in miniature, replete with multitudes upon multitudes of microscopic creatures — all performing dramas of life and death that no eye will ever see.
Occasionally, a larger creature reveals itself: a springtail, a nematode, an earthworm (or two). These are the members of the soil community that are visible (though only to those who get their hands dirty): the macrofauna. I once happened upon some members of this community in unexpected circumstances. It was the beginning of my tomato growing season and I placed some soil within a seedling pot to begin the process of my tiny seeds becoming superlative-tasting berries. As I checked on their progress a week later, I was bemused to find this tiny pot teeming with earthworms! A stowaway had been hidden in the transplanted soil — a mother earthworm — who had given birth to a plethora of tiny, wriggling worms. I was delighted, for I had never set eyes on a baby earthworm before and enjoyed, for a brief moment, a glimpse into a hidden world now laid bare.
Not all the creatures that live in the subterranean realm are small. One, in particular, is a relatively large beast. Pay a visit to almost any field in the British countryside and one will find many small mounds of crumbling earth protruding from the grassy green expanse. Some of these mounds form linear “mountain ranges”, others seem sporadically placed with no discernible pattern. These miniature “earth-volcanoes” are the sole reminder of the world underneath your feet inhabited by industrious architects who are tunnelling a network of tunnels and stations2 rivalling that of the London Underground. This, of course, is the work of moles.
An aptly named beast indeed is the mole. Its name originates from the old English name “mouldwarp”, literally, “earth thrower”. Anyone who has watched an erupting molehill will understand the suitability entirely. These industrious beasts, with a reputation for being hard workers, use their shovel-shaped feet (or hands) to excavate substantial quantities of soil to create their tunnels and chambers. The excess dirt is pushed to the surface and erupts as molehills. When one considers that mole tunnels may cover half an acre or more, are often multi-tiered, and are in need of round the clock maintenance, the moles reputation amongst the most hardest working of beasts is secured.
The elaborate network formed by an individual mole consists of surface burrows, deeper tunnels, sleeping chambers, a large fortress where young are raised, and larders where decapitated earthworms are stored for leaner times. A city beneath our feet. But a rather solitary city, for “Moles hate their own species!”3 and are thus incredibly territorial. If two moles meet each other, as sometimes their tunnel networks interlink, a fight to the death may ensue, though more often than not, the hapless intruder bids a hasty retreat.
Moles patrol their burrows like a perennial night watchman, on the lookout, yes, for invaders, but more so for food. If any worm or other little creature is found straying inside their tunnels they are quickly despatched and either consumed on the spot or taken to the larder chamber to be stored. In one study, a mole’s larder was found to contain 470 earthworms!4 A sight to behold.
Like any good infrastructure engineer, moles know that maintenance is key. The law of the universe tends towards decay and degradation. Hairline fractures are the bane of a structural engineer’s life and constant vigilance must be kept to avert disaster on a bridge or in a tunnel. Likewise for the mole. Soil, with its multiplicity of cracks, crevices, and trampling feet above can be a most unstable of substrates — and when your tunnel is held in place by the thinnest of margins, collapses are inevitable. To keep their tunnels up to standard involves strenuous effort from these industrious creatures. It is an ethic that our infrastructure inspectors could learn a thing or to from. “Consider the ant…”5 could perhaps also have been “Consider the mole…”
I have wondered, though, that if underneath our feet in the meadows and fields is a network of burrows and tunnels, how come we don’t often fall into them? Here, both we and the moles have an unseen ally in averting this unfortunate occurrence: roots. The dense matt of plant roots preset in most habitats helps to stabilise the soil and prevent tunnels from caving in. However, it does occasionally happen — sometimes with treasonous results…
In one of the strangest events of British history, King William III’s horse stumbled into a mole burrow and threw the king off its back. The King later died of pneumonia related to the injuries he sustained. For a time afterwards, his Jacobite foes toasted “the little gentleman in the black velvet waistcoat” who toppled the King and returned him to the dust from which he came. This tragic but peculiar episode gives us ever more reason to tread lightly when out in nature.
Going back to molehills, as for most of us, they are the sole point of interaction we have with these hidden creatures. Often, we find these mounds of earth a nuisance. They ruin a lawn, destroy a flower bed, or make for an uncomfortable night in a tent when a molehill erupts under one’s head! But the fact we find them annoying provides an opportunity to teach us modern people a vital lesson. These miniature spoil heaps pale in comparison to the giant rubbish dumps and spoil heaps we have erected all over our lands. Our gigantic monuments of trash poison the ground and displace creatures from their homes — they are an utter grievance to nature. So next time you are annoyed by a molehill, stop and think about how nature feels about your own wastes — and treat the land how you wish to be treated.
There is, though, one member of society for whom the mole truly is a nemesis: the farmer. He has a somewhat right to feel a degree of animosity towards this industrious creature. Not only do moles have a particular liking for earthworms — a farmer’s friend — but their habit of making their presence known through molehills destroys crops and grazing ground alike and contaminates winter silage. One writer in 1697 even went as far to say, “Moles are a most pernicious Enemy to Husbandry.”6 Strong words indeed. And what do humans do with pernicious Enemies? We tend to destroy them…
Enter the molecatcher, a man who has devoted his life’s work to waging war against this “pernicious Enemy” and is armed with an assortment of traps and devices for his battle in the subterranean realms. In previous decades, when the molecatcher had to prove his efficiency to the landowner, dispatched moles were hung up in gruesome lines on barbed wire fences, sometimes numbering twenty or more slain beasts. A stark display of man’s domination over nature. Occasionally, these death-laden fences can be witnessed today in some of our rural hinterlands7 — causing no end of disgust to an unsuspecting passer-by.
Though I can greatly sympathise with those whose livelihood is threatened by this unseen creature, I retain a soft spot for moles. Perhaps this is heightened by the fact that I am yet to see one. Every time I witness a volcano of soil erupting from the earth, I get tremendously excited. The suspense is intense. Will this be the moment I capture a glimpse of this secretive, almost mythical, creature?
Even a whisker will do.
This essay is free, but any tips given (or paid subscriptions) support my work, help me to write more pieces and are greatly received by this young writer.
Phrase used by Collis to describe his reflections on nature. They are well worth reading if you can get access to one of his books.
Indulge me in a bit of metaphor: these stations are of course the mole’s various chambers.
I am indebted to Kenneth Mellanby’s excellent book The Mole for many of the facts contained within this essay.
https://www.mammal.org.uk/species-hub/full-species-hub/discover-mammals/species-mole/
Proverbs 6:6-11.
John Worlidge, Systema Agricultura: The Mystery of Husbandry Discovered.
A good read ... I think they must taste bad because we occasionally find uneaten bodies of moles in the fields. As you say, rarely seen, but I think we have a different soil and when we were first here and the seedlings in our light soil needed frequent watering, my wife Ann found herself one-time watering the back of a lightly-covered speeding tunneller when she returned to the row with a follow-up can. The mole did not find seedling roots much of an impediment!
Just to mention moleskin trousers (pants) - water-shedding - have been mimicked in later times by a very closely woven special cloth. I do not remember how many moles made a pair of trousers!
This was a lovely read, especially with our family garden atop the wide-ranging tunnels of a very fat, very industrious mole. He has done some significant damage to our tomato plants and herb beds, and I have upon occasion wished our resident garden snakes would do away with him. However, despite our frequent encounters with the damage he does, I can’t help appreciating his work and I think I shall be rather sorry if he does indeed disappear.