The morning is sultry, the fells indistinct. Looking south, toward Morecambe Bay the tide is far out and the sands are golden. I've stood looking south to admire glorious sunlight over the Bay but, somehow, I've never seen such an extent of sand- the treacherous Morecambe Bay sands.
This morning, my gaze is far off, into the fells, to the sea, down in the Lyth Valley, farmers are making haylage, creating striking patters in the cut grass, as the hot sun shines. A peaceful scene laid out before me like a map, and silent it's so far off. From the escarpment, I can see patterned fields where cut grass lies drying in the sun and the farmer is collecting it, brown fields already cleared, black plastic bales of fodder and sheep and cattle.
Sometimes, on days of poor visibility, my focus is on the flowers and butterflies, the birds close by. Today, it's far off, into the fells which give the illusion of solitude when we hear the Lake District and tourist venues and heaving with visitors.