Troutbeck and The Tongue

Troutbeck

Leaving behind the Christmas shoppers, we set out from Moor How bound for Troutbeck and The Tongue.   A gaiters and waterproof trousers day, throughout. ' Rain showers,' said the forecast. Timing was accurate  and  heavier rain did not set in until late in the afternoon. 
Beatrix Potter's farmhouse at Troutbeck Park showed brightly through the rain and winter trees took on distinctive character.

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Hazel catkins  pale green amongst holly.  Our track was  bordered with gnarled hawthorns but it was raining and we did not linger.  Rash enough to keep on taking photographs, I was designated photographer of the day.  A herd of Highland cattle shied away at our approach and we sloshed through the mud they'd left in their wake. We forded becks, lively after rain.  A cluster of sturdy Herwick tups stood stolid amongst the rushes, their dense fleece sodden with rain.  Suddenly, a tup shook itself in a shower of raindrops.  Then another.  Tried to video the moment but the tups resisted being photographed in a shower.  'The pink one, any moment now.'  
Up on The Tongue  wisps of mist drifted over the fells and we sloshed our way upward through steady rain and steeply down through saturated grass. A mild day, however.  
Afterwards, we agreed upon the virtue of our exertions. Eleven miles I had done that day,  through rain, slippery wet grass, mud and good company. ' Who was that giving you a hug?' I asked a friend. ' No idea,' she replied. ' He just threw his arms wide and what could I do?