A debris of leafy branches tells of wind and rain. But rain fell on such parched ground that the limestone has soaked it away and there is neither mud nor puddles. Once I crest the Scout Scar ridge I know I'll see floodwaters down in the Lyth Valley, best seen on a fair day like this, after downpours. The morning is calm and sunny, growing warm enough to tempt a red admiral to flutter onto brambles. There are flocks of goldfinch and the call of the raven.
During the last wet week I reckon the only folk up here would have been dog walkers and resolute runners. I met a man who told me he had ventured forth, once, but his heart wasn't in it. That's the essence of the experience, I think, when it is of the heart.