It's Dartmoor

Be known for-its tin mines, its watery cavernous caves? Ancient as any surrounding granite hills- is its peat bogs? Dotted with Stone-Age landmarks its moorlands of abandoned medieval farmhouses, it's rocky cairns its wooded valleys, windy tors. It's intriguingly-bleak, yet incredibly-beautiful I might even say it's hauntingly mystical. Top with 'feather beds' of bright green moss, where a dying, scream, might be forever lost. Bell heathers border on yellow, wild gorse. While a headless horseman is out-galloping, riding beneath a beguiling full-cloudless-moon yes, you might ask, what is that sound that sounds like a distant ghoul, could it be the spectral hound, is it baying, is it calling for your blood? Legend has it there are ancient haunted stone circles where-pixie's-dance near boggy moorland areas frequented by common lizards the marsh fritillary butterfly, and adders, the pied flycatcher the wood warbler above streams Fairy-shrimp momentary swim together. Legend has it that during the Great Thunderstorm of 1638, the moorland village of Widecombe-in-the-Moor was visited by the Devil-himself. Maybe he was- just lost or taking shelter but no one knows for sure? 'It's Dartmoor—it's Dartmoor—it's Dartmoor, ' the wind scores the reeds heard deplorably crying.