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(From Western Morning News)
The gate is closed. It always is. It stops cattle and sheep getting into the wood. I climb over the still-strong wooden gate, close to the granite post. I have left the green meadow which rolls down to the Lynher river. From the wet, dense grass, my feet are now bouncing on soft well-composted leaves and soil. The Cornish sky is the colour of cement. Grey the clouds, grey the air. I cannot see the moors and one of its tors, Bearah, which have stood there for centuries; strong, majestic and predominant behind the wood on the other side of the valley.
I enter. I am pulled by the serene, magical enclave. It is winter and the ancient trees are …