You are a passenger…
You stay under glass…
You are driven through the city’s ripped back-sides.
You leave the city’s ripped back-sides on a road which snakes through low, rough, foothills.
Far on the horizon a solitary fin-shaped peak rises into view.
The motor vehicle which carries you pulls into a lay-by, its rubber tires scrunching on the smattering of snow and grit.
You leave the vehicle, stepping out into the cold, frosty morning.
The air is initially painful in your lungs: you expel clouds of warm steam from them like a subdued dragon.
You are no longer under glass…
You make your way to the end of the lay-by.
Your sturdy walking boots call scrunching sounds from the tarmac with each step.
A frosted grassy-knoll rises before you.
The freezing temperatures have rendered footholds in what otherwise would be only scramble mud.
You climb its offered face without need of the silvery tussocks of grass on either side and as you crest its rise the first panorama opens before your gaze.
The cold wind now pinches your cheeks, a reminder that you are approaching the High Moors.
To your left a huge escarpment meets its end with a stone face seemingly etched into its profile.
Its stern stare appraises your longed for destination, below its millennia old lookout, which is yet hidden from your sight by a small wood of fern trees.
You stride forward following the line of the escarpment until it is swallowed by the trees and you start to lose height…