So, yes, I suppose I was the golf course detective.

   You have a whole different perspective when you lie on your stomach staring into the ground, trying to spot a golf course. A golf course is the last thing you’ll see. You see the infinite variety of the structures, shapes, forms that grass becomes; or rather, the structures, shapes and forms that become grass. You become aware of the immensely deep strata that grass can weave. Far below the topmost cropped fringes of this fescue jungle, you can dimly perceive an undergrowth of mosses and clovers and plantains. And within this whole ecosystem, a menagerie of beetles and centipedes and ticks. The whole ground, the whole surface, is itching.

   And tons of droppings, like strewn pebbles, some of them clinging together in spawn-like colonies. Sheep? Or rabbits? Or both? Each dropping a dark liquorice brown but with a lustre, like the carapace of a beetle, a lustre that hints at a subdued surface sheen of more exotic colours. Metallic mauves, oilfilm greens and blues, sombre spectra.