On a day in spring, while the Moor still slept and no touch of young green broke its monochrome, the glen of Oke was alive with bird music and agleam with flowers. . . Far away, towards the Severn Sea, great rains were falling and the air was washed with sheets of cloud, that deepened almost to night where Exmoor, like a purple wale, spread luridly along and mingled her high places with the storm. From the south one roaming pencil of light passed ten miles off, and fallow land shone out, as though a ruby had been flung down there amid the welter of grey rain and flying cloud. Then the ray was swallowed by darkness, and that red
earth vanished.
The mellow light of the oak-buds bursting, the blaze of the spring gorse, the immense and storm-foundered distance, and the tenebrous sky, full of wild clouds hurrying and the curtains of the rain, combined to make a mighty theatre for the exhibition of two young human figures.

The Secret Woman Eden Phillpotts (Methuen 1905)

The village was quite soaked in sunshine. Zeal basked happy as a lizard beneath Cosdon's uplifted heights. It lay like a nest in the hollow of a desert place, and the sun burnt into it and lighted the cottage faces and blazed in the little flower-gardens by the way and cast deep purple shadows between the cots to make cool places for the children to play in and the dogs to rest. . .

The hill towered under noon-tide light, but the light was broken by clouds. Rain swept over the Beacon, and its curtains of grey, tagged with glittering silver, extended for a few moments into the valley. The Beacon sank behind this brief storm; light and colour died out of it, until its higher and lower ridges rolled huge and dim and removed, like a cloud upon a cloud. But the rain quickly passed, the vapours thinned and feathered away, and the sun shone again.

The Beacon Eden Phillpotts
(T. Fisher Unwin 1911)

How Burrough went to Dart Head

His gloves were sodden and his hands were numbed, but he managed to open his coat and drag out his watch. There was mud all over him; even the watch- chain was clotted with it, so he understood he must somewhere have sunk up to his waist. He had no recollection of it, although he knew he had been wading and floundering and sinking for hours. The time was close upon half-past two. Then it seemed that the watch was dragged out of his hands. The liquid slime sucked it down, and Burrough followed, toppled over by the wind. Somehow he worked his way out with spasmodic struggles, and crossed that crevasse, as he had crossed a hundred others, still wondering stupidly if it were the river of Tavy or the river of Dart. Had he known it was the river of West Okement, and the very centre of Cranmere, he might have abandoned the struggle, and given way to his drowsiness in its mud.

He was not cold any longer. He was quite warm and comfortable. The snow appeared to burn his face and neck. The howling wind made pleasant music. He thought he was on the shifting sands of the Cornish coast being carried seaward; and the mists were the sunset clouds which rested upon the queen's gardens and the king's palaces of Lyonesse.
Wherever he was he could rest a little, for his body found support against a heap of turves and white stones. There was an aperture, and within something that resembled a box. Above his head was a wooden post streaming with moisture. He thought he had been there before. His hands pulled at the almost invisible object which looked like a box. He opened it, just as if it had ..

A Pixie in Petticoats John Trevenna (Newnes 1916)