High on the remote moorland a young girl sat. By her side lay a sketch pad, if you been able to turn the pages, you would marvel at the detailed drawings of Dales plants and wildlife. Having just finished a delicate pencil sketch of cotton-grass, Louise found herself thinking about a crystal clear pool she had recently found. She still had time to follow the stream down the dale to the deep rock pool. Unspoilt and quiet it had stirred her to write poetry. Arriving she was saddened to see a sack caught between two rocks. Then she heard the whimper…