Wild Running

A carpet of heather, bracken and wild bleached reeds rolled out and off to the horizon beyond us; a ubiquitous covering only broken infrequently by boulders and tors.


We scrambled and clung to that solid rocky horizon and danced on its edges.


And inbetween I fished for colours and textures, sillohettes and shapes.





I hunted and gathered and walked with my boys until they began to slow and complain of thirst with cheeks full of pink from the wind.


It was the best of days.