The answer, I suppose, is that they do not and that most are now lived in by people who seek wild places and have other means of support or those who are retired and want to keep a few animals as a hobby. But what was a Scot doing in the fastnesses of England when he had the whole of his native land available to him? I spotted Sheepwash Farm another half-mile farther on, the ancient steading seeming to huddle beneath a promontory that jutted from Fox Tor and looking like a house built just below the prow of a stone ship. The road climbed towards it and then, just past the entrance, appeared to come to an end at a gateway that led to the higher open moorland on the flanks of the hill. I stopped the car and looked at the group of buildings through my binoculars: it seemed to be a ruin. This called for a more direct approach than originally planned and so I drove closer. The place was indeed mostly in ruins, the walls of the old barn and byres that fronted the central yard crumbling, their roofs open to the sky in places.
