Cringle Moor and the Cult of the Drone

A splendid day upon the Cleveland Hills, warm, sunny and kissed by a breeze so genteel it could almost be mistaken for civility. Cringle Moor was heaving, of course, the Viking Chase Fell Race transforming it into something between a checkpoint and a human anthill.

And there, above the sweating masses, hovered the latest curse of mode ...

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