Moorland folds out ahead, an uneven duvet of winter-ravaged vegetation glowing amber in the early morning sunlight. It’s broken only as it reaches the horizon, and by the irregular, paved evidence of humankind that follows its contours, dipping and cresting and occasionally twisting around some insurmountable natural obstacle.
Most of the time the moors lay silent, disturbed at this time of year only by the chatter of a landing grouse. Today though, another sound is breaking the air waves. It’s industrial and brash, stark in its contrast to the wind and wildlife. The source is somewhere behind my head, linked to my right foot through Matrix-like code, and sounds like the digitised bellow of a prehistoric creature.
Read Article