Kinder Scout.

We sweat under the surprise September sun that wasn’t forecast, laden down with our wet weather gear, stashed away in rucksacks for now. We follow the path that winds into the valley. Horsehill Tor and Brown Knoll stretch up to our left, Kinder looms to our right. Like a piece of cloth someone dropped carelessly, crumpled, her grassy folds and crevices offering possibilities of numerous routes up to the plateau. Yellow gorse, red hawthorn and rowan berries add splashes of cheerful colour. And always the backdrop of gushing of streams, tempting and refreshing. On the plateau we walk among huge rocks, scattered as if by a giant unseen hand. Smooth in shape, rough to the touch – there is something soothing about them, comforting. Shaped like bodies, some reminiscent of faces; some of a baby’s chubby thigh. Ancient and fixed, yet still slowly, painfully slowly, changing. Softened and rounded by centuries upon centuries of weather. Walking among them I feel a deep stillness. I so needed this.