Recently my sister and I were walking in the local park with the dogs when we came across piles of earth like this.
What are those, she asked.
Immediately, I was transported back to being a young child. When we went camping, Mum would cook dinner and Dad would take us out. He’d find a field full of mole hills and we’d go in.
“Mole hunting. First to see one, shout.” he told us.
Me, my siblings and a couple of foster children, raced across the fields trying to catch sight of one peeking its head out.
Oddly enough the only person who saw them was Dad. By the time we got there, it had gone down again.” Funny that.
When we got home we were all tired, which I think was kind of the point.
My sister couldn’t remember that, but then she was only three or four.
Mole Hills still make me think of Dad and those happy carefree days.
World of Stories 