Walking up towards this outcrop, we feel the cold, strong wind hitting our faces and cannot help but feel empathy for the Sheep of this Tor. We reach the top of the hill and we can climb those short but imposing routes. The granite of a millenia holding our momentary touch. The momentum of human frigility, that comes from a simple misplaced foot is instantly converted into an affection for the sturdy Tor that will never fail a solid grip. But alas, in this battle of attrition, there is only one winner. We leave with our hands ragged, the images of an eery Dartmoor park filling our heads with wanton thoughts for our imminent return.