Scawling hill was once smothered under a lifeless fir plantation; little wildlife was found in its gloomy corridors of commercial forestry. Four years ago, the conifers were cut down, and as I sat on one of the old stumps sipping tea, I could feel the whole of nature stirring around me. I could smell it too: a delicious coconut fragrance, coming from the gorse bushes, whose yellow flowers covered half the hillside. Elsewhere, the slopes flared with the golden-green flames of birch saplings. At my feet, mining bees tucked into the dandelions.