Gutter is a beacon. A place to kick off sodden boots and lay tired limbs down on the close clipped grasses of the verdant knoll that floats like a vivid green ship, ordered and tamed - altered and created by the hand of man - in a wild tempestuous ocean of nature’s mad chaos. A hard fought for island after a day’s battling with the elements. Our prize.
Here we have all we need and more. Water is drawn from the stream flowing out from the Mire to the south and there is even a spring sprouting from the spiky reeds on the opposite bank. The ground is flat and smooth and tents are flung up with ease, doors flapping in a rough circle around the steaming stoves cooking up a tasteless dehydrated mush. Fresh socks are fumbled for in the deep recesses of our packs whilst our weekend guardians turn a blind eye to contraband goods stolen in, buried deeper still beneath the socks. Our bodies are weary after 12 hours of hard physical endurance but the food, drink and dry cotton revives us and we talk and laugh as the warm spring sun arcs lower into its infinite cloud dappled sky. And then it is gone, silhouetting the boulder strewn top of Gutter Tor and briefly illuminating the golden green grasses that run along the rounded ridge.
As the dimpsy half-light fades, another light show begins; stars appearing, slowly at first then in an unstoppable torrent of bright white jewels cascading above us. A low moon rises over a stand of Scots pine to the east, a soft breeze whispering through its branches mimicking perfectly the slow tug of a wave on a shingle shore. We have crossed through the delicate veil of reality into another world - a shared experience for the lucky few, unaware of the deep significance these rare moments will have on our unimagined futures.