Baddinsgill

Thick fog on the road out to West Linton ( from its position on the Lynne Water - Lynne = Llyn from the Brionic Welsh for lake or pond).

No sign of spring on the beautifully silent broad moorland valley. Ice and a scattering of crystalline snow. Just me and the silence until three veteran runners came chugging by. ‘Hardmen’ , I jokingly said to the guy in the rear. He said, ‘No, not me,’ through gritted teeth and blowy cheeks.

Lots of water flowing out of the peat bogs, all bound here for the Tweed and the sea at Berwick. A piece of moorland enclosed by a square of fencing. Maybe an exploratory pit for mining or quarrying.

Then a day of sorting and tea with Mr T, who was on fine reminiscent form. A last sprint down to the Stockbridge charity shops - bought a copy of the Munro tables and a fat little guide ( book not person haha) to them and a Bernard Hill and Peter Robinson I hadn’t read.

And, because you asked, a picture of BabyK on his first pram outing.