The famous mist. This is what you expect when you're on a moor. Somehow though I couldn't help feeling that this particular mist was a bit weak. You couldn't really imagine any kind of MR James ghost story taking place here.

A bit further into the moor and the flatness of the landscape first struck me. There was a quietude here too, if that isn't getting too unnecessarily poetic. Well, it was quiet, for sure. Perhaps this was the din of the big city slowly evaporating from around my ears and from inside my head: the hectic and staccato rhythms of the seething metropolis unravelling, falling away into the cold white flat unchanging stillness of the country. I was here, I guess is what I'm trying to say.

It was certainly hard not to become poetic. Until, that is, I realised that those brown heaps of earth were actually mole-hills. For some reason mole-hills never entered the lexicon of the romantic landscape. Not as far as I know anyway.

This could have gone on, endlessly.

But I don't know, image-making seemed too easy, or at least too much beside-the-point. I couldn't help feeling a certain superficiality was coming across here. It was like a borrowed feeling, a referent to someone else's more authentic experience. But it was great, fun, even: there were so many opportunities, so many compositions demanding to be framed and hurled onto the digital light-receptors of my camera, and appreciated later from the comfort of my own computer-desk.