As the wind dropped over Dartmoor, all I could hear across the tor was the sound of trickling water falling through the air, pouring through the ground at my feet, pulsing and sighing through the entire hill. I followed the path up along an ocean of oozing mosses, stopping now and then to stare into the pools left behind by tiny hoof-prints, imprinted microcosms full of spores and insects that would thrive until the sun returned and the pools disappeared once more, springing back to sweet sphagnum cushions. These were the prints of neither cattle nor sheep, but pony hooves – those of the Dartmoor ...
There are approximately 895 more words in this article.
To read the rest of this article, please buy this issue, or join the Resurgence Trust. As a member you will receive access to the complete archive of magazines from May 1966.
If you are already a member, please Sign in
