MOLE: preposterous mammal that inspired a morbid poet

ONLY someone with their head in the sand could have missed Britain's wild celebrations of the eclipse - which is probably what got me thinking of the mole back then and his happy ignorance of galactic matters.

Weather conditions prior to the eclipse must have made life difficult for the mole.

Soaring temperatures baked some areas of soil as hard as concrete while the downpours that followed could easily have turned the finest mole 'des res' into sludge.

Fortunately, moles can swim and their velvety fur is water resistant so most will have escaped being drowned in their intricate underground burrows.

There is no mistaking the mole for any other small mammal because he looks so, well, preposterous with his short fat body, large snout, pinprick half-blind eyes, and colossal, clawed front feet.

Yet there is no doubt he is superbly adapted to his subterranean domain.

A mole uses his whiskers and sensitive nose to guide himself daily through his tunnel network, hunting down worms or slugs that have fallen in through the walls.

Weighing in at about 4oz, an adult mole can shift twice his own weight in soil in a minute, which is a tribute to the sheer power of those front claws. At one time, catching and killing moles was a common country pastime with the dark pelts used to make a variety of clothes.

Even as recently as four decades ago, up to a million moles were being caught in Britain each year.

Man-made furs have now largely replaced moleskin, which some may think is a good thing.

But the manufacturers of my weatherproof jacket claim the 'muffler' pockets are lined with genuine moleskin and it certainly feels as if they are.

Soft and silky, they keep my bare hands warm in the coldest of weathers.

I interviewed one of the country's few remaining professional mole-hunters some years ago and was struck by his affection for this busy little creature.

Like a lot of hunters, he actually admired his quarry above all other animals - so much so that I came away wondering if he had actually made the wrong career choice.

The mole's work rate is relentless and even caught the eye of 17th century poet George Herbert who morbidly observed:"Death is still working like a mole, And digs my grave at each remove."

Perhaps his comment was understandable.

He died aged 40.

As for the eclipse, I was out in the countryside at the time and felt, more than saw, its unsettling effect.

During a fairly torrid domestic week, with my wife away, I'd found myself in a barley field with our two young children as the witching hour approached.

One thing I noticed beforehand was a large flock of woodpigeons flying in a frantic manner around an adjoining field, then heading for the horizon. Birdsong ceased and the whole landscape seemed charged with foreboding, as if a terrible thunderstorm was about to strike.

Yet nothing major seemed to happen during the eclipse period itself and, with no protective gear, I didn't look too closely at the sun.

Shortly after, driving slowly home through a weird, ethereal light, I noticed two wild rabbits in the road and stopped the car to watch them. Both just sat there dazed until I drove away.

Further on, a mouse or young rat briefly scurried alongside the car.

All tame stuff, I know, but there was a genuine air of disturbance and unease.

However, the most curious report came from my wife.

Seconds before the eclipse started, a bee had flown into her sister's high-rise flat in Torquay and was ignored as the group there tried to get into position for the best view.

When the eclipse ended, the bee was spotted again on the floor.

Stone dead.