The Wild West

Well that was the weather forecast - but in the end it was a grand day in the North.
Up onto the fells this morning - the air was alive with the calls of the curlews, the song of the skylarks and the looping flight of lapwings. Spring has most definitely sprung.

It took me a while to appreciate these low fells, my climber's aspirations always tempting my eyes to the higher hills - but slowly, like the glaciers that formed it, this landscape has carved it's way into me, shaped me, held me in thrall and forced me to look and see its beauty. The realisation that I can walk out of my door onto, and into, an area such as this is one I hope I have the sense to be ever thankful for.

This morning I could have blipped
North for the still snow-capped top of Cross Fell.
South for the ever dramatic humpback of the Howgills.
East for the sun glinting off Shining Stones - the locals name for the limestone pavement that shines in the sun after rain or in the morning's dew.
But in the end, these disinterested ponies framed in front of Whinfell drew my eyes West.