The northlands from the air possess a stark beauty in winter: heath and bog mantled with snow, and I in my foolish exuberance, mistook their beauty for hospitality when I took to their skies with nary a glance at the upcoming weather.

It was a mistake any pegasus could have made.  The day started crisp, clear, and bright, but by midmorning the skies had grown slate-gray from horizon to horizon: by noon, snow fell in great clods and the winds grew increasingly capricious.  I hoped vainly to make my original goal of Trottingshire, but the early dusk caught me above the wastes, buffeted by wind and blinded by snow.

I counted myself lucky to spy a hearth-light in that gale.  As I descended, the light grew and revealed its origin from a great old manor-house.  <expand description> I knocked at the door and waited regarding the facade in the failing light.  Once-proud weathered stone griffons guarded a legend proclaiming the name of the place:  "Wuthering Hooves."