I’m laid out on my back, the thick springy riverbank grasses holding me more comfortably than any mattress. There is no sign of man, not even a footprint, for no man has trodden here for days, maybe weeks. Grey granite clitter litters the green to brown grasses which blend from a dark emerald at the water’s edge to a russet red higher up the valley side towards the great marauding mires that proliferate the high moors in search of their next victim. A lofty Tor esconds itself just beyond the visible ridge-line to the west - its empty flagpole swaying in a brisk breeze. Down here, however, it is still with only a slight zephyr moving upstream against the current through the deep cleave to the south and forking due north and east, bouncing off the flanks of Amicombe Hill. I have been here before; a summer’s jolly clambering up over Brat and Chat and down Rattle Brook with friends for a starlit night, the sound of bubbling water lulling me to sleep and permeating my dreams. Another time on a training walk, heavy feet carrying waterlogged boots ever further south towards Lynch, Great Mis and a bed for the night. A few years later I was back shadowing the inheritors of our fortune, spying from above with field glasses and radio, wishing time had stood still for just a little longer, not yet accepting that all things must pass. In truth I have wandered through this place many times but many years have passed now and in travelling my mind’s memories I was not surprised to make my first port of call here. I will lie a little longer, skylarks dancing and babbling overhead backed by the sparse scudding clouds, their shadows moving over me choreographed by nature in an unending elemental light show. There is nothing pressing to do today…