You don't often see a heat haze over moorlands here at this time of year, but recently the air above the heather has been wobbling in the heat. On a windless afternoon we sank down on to the turf of a high pasture after the long, hot climb and laid flat on our backs, gazing into the infinite azure of a cloudless sky. The air at ground level was heavy with the aroma of drying peat, crushed thyme and the new-mown hay scent of sweet vernal grass. Loud, piping calls echoing from the valley announced the arrival of three oystercatchers returning to breed, circling overhead, engaged in courtship pursuit.
Across the valley a curlew rose then descended in a long, slow glide. I peered across the surface of the mossy turf. In the distance scores of small purple blobs shimmered, dissolved and then materialised again: mountain pansies, hovering an inch or two above the grass. These exquisite, ground-hugging little flowers are the moorland pasture equivalent of woodland primroses, brought into precious bloom by a month of sunshine. Some are entirely purple, others purple and cream, a few pure white. Each flower has five petals – two elongated, upright, standard petals like hare's ears, two flanking laterals and a basal landing platform for insects, arranged around a tubular throat leading to nectar that's way-marked for visitors by a convergence of dark guidelines pencilled on the petals.
These signposts work. I saw a fly land on the edge of a petal, align itself with the guidelines and explore the source of the nectar. A bumblebee landed on another, weighing down the bloom as it forced its tongue into the nectary, before droning away across the turf. We toyed with the idea of walking on: not yet, though – botanising at ground level, propped on one elbow, seemed a more rewarding way to while away a sultry afternoon.