The four of us donned what protective gear we had with us and set off over the moor.
It soon became evident that we should have brought Wellingtons.
Stuart was the only one thus sensibly clad and my walking shoes are only waterproof until the sodden peat and pooled water rises higher than the ankle.
At least it wasn’t raining.
It was a perfect morning, really.
The clouds rolled low across the hilltops, drawing a veil over a landscape already shrouded in mystery.
Glacial boulders strew the moors, the striations of pressure still visible after millions of years.
In such a place it is not easy to distinguish the hand of man… until you know what you are seeking.
Then you cannot miss it.
The four of us squelched through the boggy ground in search of a drier path.
The irony was that we had chosen this route to avoid the one we had taken the last time we were here, where water ran like a stream, and pooled in every hollow.
That day we had been alone and we have become accustomed to finding ourselves with soggy feet on our explorations.
This time, we were with friends… and the baptism of chilly mud seemed a poor welcome.
We had arranged to meet author Graeme Cumming and his partner again… it had been decided that we would play out on the moors before lunch, so Stuart and I were going to take them to see an unusual site and a very special standing stone.
If… and where Stuart and standing stones are concerned, it was a big ‘if’… it was still where we had left it.
They have a habit of going walkabout…
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