Sisters’ Fountain on the wild, wet rain-coast of Exmoor is always green. Even now, at the end of winter when the overhanging sycamores are bare of leaf, the place is lit lime and emerald. Brilliant pelts of moss clothe rocks, roots and trunks. Glossy, ruched straps of hart’s-tongue fern dangle from walls.
The “fountain” itself is a natural spring with a wellhouse over the top. Water runs out of the hill into a marble basin, now full of silt and mostly obscured under a jumble of broken stone. Only a small piece remains clear, swept clean by the bubbling flow, gleaming white and as smoothly bumped to touch as the milky flesh inside a coconut.
