There is a place the heart calls home, I think, for each of us. Sometimes we are lucky enough to live there. Sometimes it simply lives within us and pulls at the heartstrings, calling us. It may be the place you were born, a place you were happy, or a place that takes hold of your heart and begins a romance that lasts a lifetime long.
These are the places where the innermost self touches the heart of the land and Mother Nature herself reaches out to us, drawing us to her, teaching us her ways and letting us listen to her heartbeat as we lay our head upon her breast in silence and wonder.
For me, it is that ancient range that forms the backbone of England, the Pennines. These weathered hills run northwards, separating East from the West, rising in Derbyshire and running to the end of England. But this is not a geological essay. It is, quite simply, a love affair.
There is a magic about the moors for me. The rock and iron grey of the clouds may not fire everyone’s imagination. Many cannot see their stark winter beauty. But I defy anyone to be unmoved by the rising of a pale golden sun from the purple mist of heather that blooms from horizon to horizon in a brief burst of glory.
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