Days of torrential rain have yet to drain from this broad ridge at the westernmost edge of Dartmoor. The wide path to the top of Gibbet Hill, with views of Wheal Betsy, the nearby abandoned mine, is glazed with puddles, and I am forced to hop between tussocks of sedge to avoid treading ankle-deep in the liquid earth. This is my favourite season on Dartmoor – a time when it most feels like a moor: wet, muddy, bleak, empty. The wind-bent grass and dark scuffs of peat appear devoid of life. But winter walks promise fleeting encounters with a species
These Italian brown bears have changed their behaviour due to close interaction with humans
...
Read moreDetails
