The rain wasn’t torrential but it was relentless, tumbling from clouds which felt like they were at little more than ceiling height and inevitably, the distance closed as we drove higher. We had to negotiate the Kirkstone pass, 1500 feet and dangerous in bad weather.
It’s beautiful wild country up there in the hills, glacier-gouged, rock-strewn slopes. Walls built of the stuff of the hills line the road, separate the hillsides into paddocks. Stoic sheep graze the grass. It’s all right for them; they belong here. The narrow road was barely wide enough for two cars and here and there a deep valley opened up just on the other side of that stone wall.
It was a hairy drive, but rugged and beautiful. I have no doubt that the scene and the feeling will appear in a book somewhere. No experience is ever wasted in a writer’s life. Wouldn’t you agree?