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It begins, like many great British traditions, with someone getting murdered in the countryside.
The Spectre of Lanyon Moor is what happens when you take the gothic weirdness of folk horror, throw in some aliens, a cranky old aristocrat, and a Doctor in a Technicolor dreamcoat who’s finally found his stride—and then somehow it all works. Miraculously. Grubbily. Comfortably. Like an old stone cottage that probably has three ghosts and a slow-boiling kettle at all times.
Let’s start with the obvious: this one doesn’t reinvent the wheel. It doesn’t even try. But what it does do is roll the perfectly serviceable wheel straight down the foggy hillside of rural Cornwall into a pit full of telepathic glowing alien wreckage and ancient subterranean spite. Which, frankly, is my kind of day out.
Colin Baker, whose Sixth Doctor has often suffered from “angrily yells exposition until someone dies” syndrome, is finally given a story where he can actually breathe—and charm. He’s warm, clever, occasionally testy, but never cruel. And when you pair him with Evelyn Smythe (as always, a joy: witty, grounded, and forever ready to throw academic shade), the dynamic crackles like a log fire after a miserable rainy hike. Their friendship is the cozy heart of this story, and it’s on full display here.
Oh, and did I mention the Brigadier’s here? Yes, that Brigadier. Nicholas Courtney turns up like a warm jumper you forgot you owned and instantly feel better wearing. His interactions with both Evelyn and Sixie are wonderful—full of understated affection, dry humour, and that trademark British resignation in the face of certain death. You could pair him with a haunted eggcup and he’d still make it work.
Now, the actual plot: something spooky is happening around Lanyon Moor, where people are dying, things are glowing, and Sir Archibald Flint—a moustache in search of a brain—is conducting mysterious rituals and being casually racist in the way only posh Doctor Who villains from the countryside can. Yes, he’s absurd. But at least he’s fun absurd, not “menacing Klan cosplayer” absurd. And the twist—that the folk tales are actually about a long-buried alien war criminal with psychic abilities—is handled with surprising restraint.
It’s this blend of local legend and off-world menace that makes the episode work. It doesn’t go full horror (this ain’t Image of the Fendahl), but it also never leans into the “aliens are gods” cliché too hard. It respects the rural setting while keeping the pacing tight and the tone sharp. Also, the supporting cast—normally a Big Finish crapshoot—are uniformly solid, even when their characters are ridiculous.
Final Verdict:
The Spectre of Lanyon Moor doesn’t try to blow your mind. It just delivers a grounded, moody, character-led story with great chemistry, rural mystique, and zero continuity-porn smugness. And in this economy? That’s practically witchcraft.
4 out of 5 subterranean warlocks with trust funds.