Burbling, dinking, frothing, twisty little river, the Duddon. Caw, towering overhead, pyramidic, baked prehistoric earth. A scintillating, powerful bright blue tears open the sky; we breathe hard, spectres dissipating in the glare. The Lakes work their magic.
Wonky, mossy, mouldy, splintered trellis tables out the back of the pub, nestling in Caw’s haughty palm. A large round of Bluebirds and some nuts. Breath now subsides, smiles all round. The sun dips below the roof – repair inside, ducking under the central beam. A large fire crackles. More Bluebirds all round. More nuts. A cigarette, maybe. Excellent. Life affirmed. Perhaps some stone skimming in the gloaming, strolling home.