Black Sail Cycle

So, here I am sitting on my gloves outside the closed doors of Black Sail still warmed from the push up the valley and eating my lunch. There is not another soul in sight on the whole of Great Gable or silhouetted anywhere on the encircling shoulders of Brandreth, Haystacks or Kirk Fell.  The only sound is the whisper of the headwaters of the Liza rustling over rocks from many quarters and a chill breath of air sighing along the track; cold and quiet. Only one sandwich in and I am feeling the beginnings of a shiver, numb fingers and nose.

Sunshine is hard to come by on the Lakeland valley floors in winter. The high fells block the sun's low path with such long shadows that for 2 or 3 of the winter months the land is continuously shrouded from direct warmth or light. Eyes adjust to the semi-twilight but even at midday any brightness from above is diffused and filtered into silent grey reflection. The few houses sit in the base of a bowl which cools over the season and when frost puddles here after the autumn rains it freezes and re-freezes like old ice in the bottom of a fridge. The pewter drabness is not without its own contemplative beauty, but on days like today, where the sun rays catch the tops the effect is much the same as looking up out of the depths of a well to a world both beautiful and remote. A transformation scene of contrasts - glittering snow, dark crags, pale azure sky.

It takes your breath away.