I spoke to soon about spring. It has been cold this week, with snow and a biting wind. The Goyt was silent. Only the owl quartered the hillside fruitlessly searching for prey. Wrapped up against the cold I trudged down into the valley, seeking solitude from the torments of the day, and feeling the gloomy oppressive mood lift with each step that I took. I was grateful for the cold, it mean't that I would be alone. I could shout out, rage against the frustration, open my lungs and scream. I heard them first, a clanging sound as pots and pieces of tent banged against their bodies, then saw them. Twenty of them. A forlorn, bedraggled hunched little group, shouldering heavy rucksacs and wearily plodding up the hill towards me. Had they heard me? Had my cries carried to them on the chill wind. Had they been stirred from their thoughts, to glance about fearful of the banshee screams? Politely they passed me. Twenty salutations, some spoken, some smiled, then they were gone. Alone again, I descended deeper into the valley. I decided to stay silent.
