High up in the gorselands, inaccessible to all but sheep, well off the usual path of walkers—the soil is shallow, but you do your best.
Then you worry: Water erosion... landslide... foxes' paws... crows' beaks.... You go back to check. Again. And again.
In the end it is your footprints, and your scraps of cloth and skin on the gorse bushes, that tell the tale.
Confession would have cost you less.