My current favourite book is about Somerset, written in 1912. The prose is lovely and purpley (though the author can be scathing about, for example, the filthy Tudors).
'If a man would know what Exmoor is, let him not waste his breath by climbing Dunkery, seventeen hundred feet and more over the sea. Dunkery stands upon the seaward confines of the moor and will tell him little of the lie of the land.
Let him march afoot from Porlock to Simonsbath and on to Moles Chamber, and then back by Exe Head and Pinkery Pond to Badgery Water; not till he has done this will he have seen the moor; that bare rolling waste very like the sea, with its long heaving monotony of grey water, without a voice, without life and without human habitation, for there is only the sound of wind and of running water, only the life of a rare black cock or curlew, a rarer pony, only far off, lost in the rolling bald downs a shepherd's hut for dwelling.
That is the moor and its face is the face of eternity'
Brr.