I was a doctor, a nice safe career helping people until I one day I went for a walk out onto the wilds of Dartmoor. The dark stone peaks frowned down at me as they’ve frowned at people for thousands of years. Walk on and feel the power of the timeless moor. Soon you are lost, even with a ‘where am I?’ phone app because the rain lashes down, the wind stings your eyes blinding you to the modern world and there is no reception.

This is a primeval, ancient land. As the weather clears perhaps you may see some person striding out, are they dressed in animal skins, is that a club they carry, was that a mammoth in the distance? I found it hard not to let my mind take me to a distant age, thousands of years before when the moor was even more dangerous. Could I survive out there? No, of course I couldn’t survive but I might be able to write about someone else trying to do the same. So, doctor into writer.
The more I wrote the easier it became to see how difficult it is to write. The story is there, but where are the people who will bring it to life? I was used to seeing people with problems, surely my characters could fly from medical clinics onto the page? Not so easy. Sick people would have no chance on the moor, limping over the stony ground, leaning heavily on the stone Tors with each heart attack, and it really isn’t a good place to get diarrhoea. So I needed stronger people.