Holey moley!

Fêted in literature and as reviled in myth as it can sometimes be in real life, the mole is the mammal equivalent of Marmite, says Harry Pearson, as he tunnels into the subterranean world of the 'gentleman in velvet'

THE mole can be faulted for many things. His old English name, 'mouldwarp', means 'earth-thrower'. The soil he carelessly flings around causes damage to farm machinery. The soft hills he creates with his subterranean burrowing endangers the limbs of livestock and horses and brings green keepers and groundsmen out in a cold sweat. His mining slices through the roots of crops and causes flowers to wither and flop. His inconsiderate dirt chucking renders silage unpalatable to cattle and can spread listeria. Defenders counter that he aerates the soil, improves drainage and eats the underground grubs that feed on plants. In Germany, in recognition of his environmental work, the mole is protected by law.

Something both friends and foe can agree on, however, is the mole's work ethic. The 5in-long creature digs at a rate that puts the hi-tech boring equipment used by Cross-rail to shame, excavating 20 yards in a single day. In his five-year lifespan, he will build enough tunnels to stretch from Kent to the Pas de Calais. Nor does he prioritise speed over quality. The mole is no cowboy. The tunnels he constructs are sturdy. They can see service for more than 20 years.

Were it not for the havoc he wreaks, this hard-working animal would undoubtedly be an object of wider admiration. As it is, we tread warily when he is around. There are an estimated 40 million moles in Britain (Ireland is as free of moles as it is of snakes, although St Patrick takes no credit in that case). Were they to gather in packs, moles might cause the entire nation to subside. Thankfully, they don't.