The Mountains of Scotland, or any good mountain range.
There’s something about the isolation and exposure and sheer bloody massiveness of a good mountain that throws up a wealth of imagery for me. From the lone traveler, wending his weary way home from the war only to be confronted by witches, to the young magic user who travels to the peaks to call on a demon that promises great power. The lost legion, who cross the treacherous hills during the night and never emerge from the thick fog, and the beast that prowls the lonely trails, picking off travelers and sowing their faces onto its’ disguise so that it can venture down into the surrounding towns. I feel uplifted when I get up high, freer, and unbound, and ready to spin tales aplenty.