The seldom seen hill
From the village a deep lane winds up between head-high hedgerows, gaps offering fleeting glimpses into other worlds - the farms and fields and hills beyond. Our feet move quickly above a metalled surface matted with straw at first, then strewn with twigs and stones and marbled by mud that flows from steep banks. The detritus of recent storms. At the end of the lane we turn right, skirting the hillside until a tight bend marks our exit point and we turn off and climb steeply, hands pressed against knees in a vain effort to add power to burning legs. The angle eases and we hold conference at a marker post, huddled over a photocopied map scant on detail. Rightwards looks best, and after a gate and ankle deep mud we enter a gully of loose, red stones with low slung briars that snatch at skin and snag clothes. A winter stream flows silent beneath our feet, stealing dirt from our shoes and tumbling quick in its eagerness to join the river in the valley below. The country then opens out