Allendale is a wild and lonely place. The town has struggled for its existence among the fells for centuries. Isolated farms cling to the hillsides. Even today, the fells tolerate their human settlers. We have not conquered them.
The hills and valleys have been scoured by centuries of rain. Treacherous pools lurk in the peat moors. The fells are left as a haven for the moorland sheep, the wild birds, and the legends of unnatural beings which still trigger unease when the creeping mists come down.
There is a wild beauty to these hills. They have forged the souls of those who call them home and who feel their magical lure. The fells are a part of them as much as they are a part of the fells.
Hardy trees and wild flowers thrive in the wilderness. Heath milkwort. Broom. Crosswort and purple vetch. Dwarf furze. Spotted orchis. Scot's pine.
A farm which crumbled beneath the wheels of time.
The remains of the lead mining industry.
If ever a landscape has a story to tell, this is it.