Dozmary Pool where the Hand of the Lady of the Lake Emerged to Grasp the Sword of the Dead King Arthur
The moors of Devon and Cornwall stretch far and away, rolling hills of bright green grass stacked one behind the other, the green crossed with the dark lines of hedges, and dotted with white sheep, the valleys lined with trees and deep vegetation, and nearby the sound of water falling over granite but hidden among the thick brush.
Sometimes mist rubs out the farthest hills and sometimes thick layered clouds move aside to reveal a bit of blue or, less often, a shaft of sun, always a surprise. The hedges and lanes brim with wild flowers and flowering bushes.
The June air was cold and clean with moist edges that curled my hair into tendrils and made my socks feel clammy and my hands seek the shelter of the pockets of my rain jacket. One day we climbed a tor, resting on granite boulders as we climbed, and another day we found a line of menhirs placed by the ancient people, and a stone circle and then a hut circle. The hillside fell away to a wall and a line of bushes far below. We saw a herd of sheep being moved up a far slope by two border collies and even at such a distance we could hear the whistles of the shepherd. Birds are everywhere on the moor: larks, rooks, swallows, sparrows and martins and many that I could not make out.
A Hulk Prison Ship
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