A desolate place where the wind rips the trees into twisted apparitions, where ghosts hide in the rocks.  The land is wild untamed.  Mists descend so quickly that the unwary stumble on stunted grass, lost alone to die from the chill.  The moors a beautiful world of mytery and legend, light and shadow skimming across the grass.  Where you close you eyes and shift back through the ages, hidden in the rocks protected from the winds.  The world stands still, the smell of the musky grass, the earth, heat and hot air.  Flies buz past, the sound of a distant pony.  The laboured breathing of the walker.

A place unforgiving, hard where the competition is tough, only the hardy survive.  Yet look closely in this grass and it is alive with tiny plants cleverly adapted to their surroundings, with insects, snakes, lychen on the rocks, a whole world in miniature perfectly formed all competing yet all living together as one.  No the moors are not so desolate they are life, raw untamed without the contraints of society.