Kit's Steps

Long before names were etched into stone or whispered in tales by firelight, the land around Lydford Gorge throbbed with a presence older than memory—something deep and watching, coiled within the roar of falling water and the hush of mossy paths. It is a place that remembers. Beneath its veil of mist and bracken, where time runs as strangely as the river that cleaves it, stories are not merely told—they are absorbed, made part of the stone and shadow. Among the ferns and slick stones of Kit’s Steps, where tragedy left its mark not once but twice, the past never truly passes. It waits, echoing in each footfall, stirring in every breath of wind. Those who walk there do so with unseen company, drawn by more than curiosity, their hearts stirred by something older than sorrow—a song, a whisper, a name carried on the mist.