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  • Writer's pictureCrone

The Crone Zone

See this. It's not very pretty. In fact, it's a scrubby bit of boggy waste on the side of a stream. Yet, strangely, it appeals to me.


There's that cave-like feel about the darkness under the vegetation and the lichen-encrusted broken-off branch gives the scene a strange eeriness. There is something attractive in the very lack of prettiness.


In the past I had this kind of feeling about Dartmoor. The heathland is not typically picturesque. It's somewhat bleak. There's a self-contained-ness about the landscape. It doesn't need us. It doesn't seek to please us. It doesn't make life easy but nor does it inspire awe. It sits there, brooding, and if it says anything, it says, 'What are you looking at??'


Unlike the wild coasts, it doesn't show off, all energy and spray. Unlike scenic coasts or postcard-lakes, it doesn't sparkle, shimmer and flirt. Unlike mountains and glaciers, it doesn't demand respect. Unlike the lovely villages of the Cotswolds, it doesn't bat its eyelids and smile engagingly.


It grants yellow gorse and purple heather and orange bracken.


There's something of that attitude of 'Yeah? What of it?' in the Crone Zone.


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