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The cottage in which I live is situated in the middle of a coarsely grassed field on the edge of a moor, meaning that the view from my bedroom window is a little more extraordinary than most.
The first thing that catches my eye as I gaze out of this window is the dense patch of woodland, about a quarter of a mile away, but still clearly visible. It is dark (one must never venture inside without a torch, even in the very middle of a brilliant summers day) and the shadows that are cast upon the ground around it are never simply those of trees. They are those of misshapen, contorted beasts, moving, even when there's not a breath of wind. I think sometimes I hear these tree beasts howling at night, and I imagine their slobbering jaws, knarled claws and evil, glowing eyes.
This woodland is the last group of leafy trees for miles, beyond them the moors seem to stretch out for ever and ever, a carpet of thick, sharp grass, creeping up to swallow any lone bush who dares stand amongst, challenging any innocent passer-by on the beaten cart track to take the weird walk upon it.
Does all this sound appealing to you?
No?
I am surprised.
Everyday, when I come home, I run upstairs and fling open my bedroom window. I let the wind (it seems to be almost always windy) blow back the hair from my face and push my clothes tight against me, I lean out, listening to the panes of glass rattling in the window and the swishing as the wind rustles and flows through the brittle leaves of the forest trees.
I always fancy that it has always smelt as fresh as it does now; even in the two hundred years since my cottage was built. I breath in the scent of the moorlands, letting it fill me up.
As I read a book and watch the film that reading rushes through my lively mind, at least one scene manages to take place upon my magical moor. It is a most versatile backdrop.
Tess Durbeyfield trudges home from Trantridge, warm brown eyes cast down upon the waving grass in sorrow, treading the same path that Jane Eyre took, before resting uneasily for the night at the foot of one of the trees.
Somehow, the tree beasts creep stealthily into the stories and I do my best to banish them back into their hair raising hidey-holes.
I don't always succeed.
Nevertheless, I join the characters, walking through the scratching moorland grasses alongside them or sending my own characters to do the same. I watch as their neat, soft hair waves in the breeze, and they gaze clearly up at the grey, swollen clouds, wondering- sometimes aloud- when the high heavens will open and the land will be thoroughly drenched, as is inevitable in these kind of gothic novels.
It is rare, but it happens, that the sun will be shining when I sit at my window. When it does come, it is a beacon of happiness, illuminating the normally dreary landscape.
I like it either way, but find the darkness does more for the inventive daydreams.
I have always been told that my imagination is over active.
In the sun's warm rays, the tree beasts reduce and change, transforming into playful kittens or swooping birds. This is the only time that I feel brave enough to venture into the forest alone.
Yes, I am scared of the forest, its illusion of power overwhelms me, but I love it passionately all the same. I am lucky to have it, and the moors, almost solely to myself.
It changes at night, the whole area; becomes ever more mystical. The moon is bigger here than any place I have ever known and it shines brightly, casting liquid silver on the ground. Sometimes, at first glance, it seems as though a clean blanket of snow has laid down upon the spiky ground. Then you realise that there is still utter darkness around the forest. No snow.
So now you know every inch of the view from my window, and all about its ever changing moods.
Did I not tell you it was extraordinary?