Dartmoor Narrative

This will be recorded to play in my short narrative film. I have incorporated research, folk tales and personal anecdotes to create a well rounded storyline. I have tried to keep a simple and clear direction, leaving the audience interested and wanting more towards the end.

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Designated a national park in 1951, Dartmoor nestles itself in the heart of Devon. Covering nearly 1000km squared, the moorland is the largest and wildest area of open country in southern England, boasting many granite tors and rocky outcrops.

The earth here is vast and unforgiving, the elements quickly shift; there is an omnipresence rarely experienced anywhere else I have visited. Before embarking on a journey across this harsh land, locals notify someone of their destination and ensure they are adequately prepared for any potential emergencies.

Each season brings its own array of vibrant colours, and the wide open spaces offer staggering backdrops. In Autumn these are lavish with ambers and reds, unblemished by the footfall of the summer months. Maturing with the seasons, the ferns smother the landscape in a rich, rusty veil. The ground, now slickening and boggy, blooms mushrooms and hardy tufts of spiky gorse that clutch the last of their flaxen petals in the bitter wind.

When the dark sets in it not surprising how one may start perceiving monsters in the shadows or giants climbing from the earth. The rough terrain invokes a sense of desolation and vulnerability. Once the fog descends - suddenly obscuring all landmarks - panic can swiftly set in. You may find yourself walking in circles, or traipsing into unexpected bogs.

When I walk on Dartmoor, I feel a tribal sense of belonging to the earth. There is a rare magic that surrounds a place that is deeply rooted in lore and history.

Ghost stories and legends are symbolic of Dartmoor's heritage. In a world of rapid consumerism, it's interesting to define the line between myth and misinformation and to consider the impacts of such storytelling.

These tales are passed from generation to generation by the people in the local area, and the tourists who visit, eager to perpetuate mysticism and reconnect to their spiritual values, igniting the flames of nostalgic tradition and mythology within their own lives.

The jagged chain of rocks atop Hound Tor were fabled to be the dogs of the Bowerman Hunter, who were turned to stone by a coven of vitriolic witches.

Jay's grave tells a tale of romance and betrayal. Flowers lay fresh each morning, but who from?

And beware the Hairy Hands, a malicious apparition, hell-bent on forcing their victims from the road.