Dartmoor in its winter guise holds a real command over me
There was a knife-edged crispness to the air that late morning. Frost lay in gossamer thin blankets weaved by unseen fingers into wild patterns across the hillsides. I pulled up at the junction. To my right was Saddle Tor - aptly named in its shape - but Gargantua and Pantagruel could have both sat astride this majestic granite mount.
Then the words in the book turned the wheels of my car and I was down on the road towards Hound Tor. I ignored all the signs - I ignored all the beauty for once - I was feeling single-minded. There, after a hint of forest, was Kitty Jay's grave. And true to the mystery, some unknown hand had placed a gorgeous pink flower that lay modestly nodding in the breeze to the tragedy of the story.