Fisherman

Be back in Spring 1915 and head for the Dalesman in Sedbergh, North Yorkshire - nestling under green butresses. Drink 4 pints of  foaming bitter ale and munch on some old bread before setting off up a track into the ever-crouching, trackless Howgill mountains. All snow has gone. It’s a balmy evening, still as boulders, and, although you’re traveling light, that rucsac is heavy and beer sweats out of pores like the chuckling white stream crossing from your left. It gets dark; air cools and moistens. A wind rises so you climb into a bag, using your jumper as a pillow. A few hours later, smell sweet wet grass and see apparent green spears in front of your pointing nose. Pebbles shine and a spider wanders across a real-world near your face.  Stretch palms - there are many heavy steps to go before opening  time.

          Resurrect yourself again or, heaven help you, they’ll be right on your trail.