To me this place is naturally beautiful.

An escape from the grey city to return to rural roots

and appreciate nature’s aesthetic hand.

Shaded woods and carpets of pine needles,

dainty white wood sorrel growing by streams,

perched on moss-covered banks all golden green.

Beyond the sheltering confines of the woods,

brown moorland punctuated with black bog

glowing warmly in the evening sun.

All is peaceful, all is calm here,

with the soothing sounds of trickling water nearby

and the frog-like call of woodcock overhead.

Dotted about this serene scene

are the ominous remains of ancient bastles,

walls of stone, feet thick with slits for windows.

Designed not for comfort, but to withstand attack -

fortress-like qualities in a family home -

one up, one down, secure, but grim.

No Rose Cottages or Meadow Views here,

rather Bog Head and Black Midden;

stark names to reflect harsh times.

Like their dwellings, the inhabitants linger still.

Their spirits felt as a sense of unease

amid nature’s tranquillity.