Arctic scrub, where the stones of the tor protect them from scouring winds and snowdrifts taller than I am. This is what reminded me of scuba diving, of skeletal corals and rocks encrusted with strange color, and low bunched plants twisted by the weight of the water.
One side of the outer ring of the tor, from below. Hard to convey how otherworldly this place is.
The altar of winds. The wind singing around the rocks is the only noise, and it curls into your coat like knives.
Hundreds of miles away from the nearest city. No industry, no flowing water, no birds in sight, no cars on the dirt road. I'm not sure it ever rains here, even, or if there is just silent snow and the will-o-wisp wind.
A bunch of crowberry growing on the leeward side of the tor.
Upward and outward. This is The End of All Things. There's nothing else but snowswept rock and howling wind, crowberry and aven, rock and sky, from here to the outer edge of the world.