An encounter with AI on misty Stanton Moor

Another Peak District tale from last September. 

I had parked Sophie, and was looking for the entrance pathway onto Stanton Moor, an area of high rough heathland north-west of Matlock. I was on the western edge of the Moor, where the remains of old quarries were much in evidence. There were still a couple of stone companies operating here. You could tell from the noise! 

But I soon left the screech of stone-cutting behind. The mist on the Moor quickly deadened the sound. It was a very damp day, though not actually raining. I was dressed for rain though, had put on my Dubarry boots, and was carrying my stick to keep me upright if the paths proved slippery. Actually, they were fine. The main concern was the mist that cloaked the Moor, and made it a rather eerie place to be, even though it was full daylight. I wasn't the only person there. I saw for instance a man with a dog returning to his car just as I arrived, and I met another person later on (more about that soon). Otherwise I seemed to have the place to myself. 

Not that you could be quite certain that nobody was lurking: the mist hid all but my immediate surroundings. But I told myself it was foolish to suppose that every bush hid a man intent on mayhem. Besides, I was no lightweight, had a stick, and could if necessary deploy a hefty metal camera with sharp edges - one good clunk in the face from that, and any perpetrator of harm would need a hospital visit. Even so, I questioned the wisdom of venturing unaccompanied onto a misty moor, and what I would actually do if I had an unpleasant encounter. But should a woman on her own always keep away from lonely spots? No, it was too restricting. But I stayed very alert. 

I found the path. It began in an old quarry full of stone blocks, green with moss, and dramatically-leaning trees.

There was an information panel. My first objective was the Cork Stone shown on it. (Click on these pictures to see more detail)

Best foot forward, then. You can see my boots and stick in the next shot.

It was really quite hard to see what lay ahead. Would I end up taking the wrong path? Surely I wouldn't miss the highly distinctive shape of the Cork Stone? As I walked on, I began to wonder. Then it gradually emerged from the mist, a stumpy and rather other-worldly presence. Like a mysterious waiting sentinel.

No doubt it was a perfectly useful and friendly landmark in bright sunshine, and the footholds carved up one side suggested that on a clear day the view from the top was worth the climb. But today it was just a lump of wet rock. Nevertheless, I had to touch it. I generally touch all solitary standing stones. It's the mystic in me.

On I went. The Cork Stone quickly faded from view in the mist. 

I felt assured that I was on the right path, at least for the moment, although there was no distant object in view to aim at. The vegetation consisted mostly of ferns, colourful even on such a dull day. 

There were also small rocky outcrops scattered about. Were they natural, or deliberately put there long ago in neolithic times? It was hard to tell.

The path was turning. Glancing at the OS map on my phone, I was still pretty sure where I was, but began to look out for a tower that I should be able to see. It was in fact impossible to get lost, as I could fire up GPS on my phone, and discover precisely where I was on the map. But I wanted to test my map-reading skills without the crutch of GPS. Ah, there it was! I went up close for a good look.

The tower was built on the edge of the Moor by a past estate-owner to provide wide views of both the Moor and the valley of the River Derwent below, at least from the top. The windows were mere slits. It had become disused and partly ruinous. The entrance was blocked for safety's sake. Right then, back to the path and onwards to my main objective: the stone circle called the Nine Ladies. They came into view, in the centre of a wide glade of birch trees.

The map showed another stone, the King Stone, a little way off. It sounded big and important, but I couldn't immediately find it. I walked around, checking directions and distances, and eventually came across this puny lump in the grass. It was definitely the King Stone, but a very unimpressive monarch indeed:

I found another information panel, which said a lot about the Nine Ladies and the King Stone. 

It also explained that Stanton Moor was a 'Cairn Field', meaning that it was a neolithic burial-ground, containing a large number of stone cairns - dolmens, I suppose. I hadn't spotted many of them while walking along, but some of those rocky outcrops must certainly have been collapsed cairns. They were all plotted on the map shown on the panel. 

I had met nobody since the start of my walk, and heard no sounds except natural ones. Now I heard a steady whistling noise. What on earth was it? A stout bearded man, with a backpack and little dog on a lead, came into view, clearly seeking the Nine Ladies like me. And flying behind him, keeping to a fixed height and a fixed distance, was a little drone. That explained the whistling noise: it was the sound of the drone's propellers. I was however fascinated that it stayed the same distance from the man, as if it were a well-trained pet. Then something even stranger happened. He held out his hand, palm upward, and the little drone landed neatly on it, then fell silent. 

You can just make out the drone (right centre) in my shot above. It's coming in to land on the man's upturned palm.

I walked a bit closer and asked him how it was done. 'Oh, AI, ' he said. He clearly wasn't going to be talkative, so I didn't enquire further. I guessed that the drone could somehow be set up to follow at a fixed height and distance, and to recognise an upturned palm as a signal to approach and land on the palm. Impressive, at least to me!

I'd finished photographing the Nine Ladies and the King Stone, and stole off while this man was himself glancing at the stones, aided by his dog. He hadn't been a threat. In my experience, men encumbered with backpacks and small dogs do not waylay women. But who else was nearby? There were in fact a couple of tents on the edge of the glade, and there were waste bags stuffed with empty beer cans propped up against the information panel. Neatly stuffed, I was willing to grant; but I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that rough-living men with an appetite for alcohol were at large on the Moor. Time to get out of their vicinity. 

Besides, the light had subtly changed. The afternoon was wearing on. And the already-limited visibility would get worse as the light grew less. My way led through these trees, and then hopefully out onto the open Moor:

My right knee wasn't doing too badly, but I didn't want to over-stretch it. Even so, I kept up a good pace until I was sure that the glade had been left well behind, and that nobody was following me on the same path. Then it was just a matter of steadily walking until familiar ground came into view. But the mist and fading light made it hard to be sure when I really was back on my original path. I was very relieved when the Cork Stone came into sight, and beyond it the quarry and then the road. Soon I was sitting in Sophie with the doors locked and the engine fired up ready to go. 

You might ask why I venture into lonely places, if I'm at all nervous about being waylaid. But I can't let myself be fearful when the risk is - taken rationally - quite small, and when there is so much beautiful countryside to be seen. Even countryside shrouded by mist has its own allure. 

I'm sure at least one reader will explain to me how AI enabled that drone to behave as it did. It was a very cool thing to behold.

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