Cumbria

Below my feet, the trout-tickling stones, smoothed by centuries of water, make the Derwent gurgle as it passes. To my left, the bulging Cumbrian hills. All around, a quietness, broken now by a peacock’s strange cry further down the valley. There is utter perfection in this place – spiritually I am home. Trees here are old and slow and permanent. It is only in the presence of the “peopled scene” that I falter. Grey heron, flying silently along the river – disappears from view.