The cottage stood alone on the moors, a lonely island in a vast sea of heather and cotton-grass beaten low by centuries of scouring winds blowing down off the northern glaciers. A short, piecemeal stone wall ran around the place, dividing off a parcel of land indistinguishable from any other. A rough wooden gate provided access, banging and squeaking occasionally on its hinges in the gusty air. The door never opens, but from inside, as if from a great distance, puzzling sounds can be heard: the blast of a hunting horn, the roaring of a waterfall, or the buzz of an orchestra tuning up.