We arrive in Denmark to the mystery of molehills. An explosion of earth mounds picked out in the car headlights like a compound of pyramids. Henri is not happy. They are mobile, the moles, moving house from one corner of the meadow to another. An ancient Aztec city of soil.
The nice neighbour is obsessed with them. He has an annual petanque tournament and is lined-lawn crazy. For him it is war. I don’t exactly welcome them, but figure they’re more resident than me.
