Despite the sunshine and the cloudless blue sky, a sharp wind whips off the hillside behind me and makes me glad that I wore a fleece. It is quite chilly sitting on the bench overlooking the valley. A young couple stroll past arm in arm. They are in shorts and tee shirts. Maybe its my age and not the wind that makes it seem chilly. They seem to hesitate as they pass by the bench. Maybe they hoped to sit there themselves.
Below in the valley the curlews liquid cry is cut through by the raucous rasp of a grouse. But the curlews persist and the grouse give up. Somewhere behind me on the hillside I hear a lapwings distinctive call while a skylark sings above me. From far away I hear the throaty growl of a super bike on Long hill. It provides an ever louder background sound as it fights the dips and curves of the road, getting closer and closer before the noise recedes as the bike hurries down the hill into Buxton.
Peace descends on the hillside and in the valley. The sun sinks lower and the shadows chase the fading light away across the slopes. I retreat reluctantly back to the car. But before I leave I watch the wind ripple across the surface of the pond, fracturing the water into a thousand pieces.
Tonight would be a good night to bring the children to see the night sky unpolluted by lights. Not only is it a cloudless sky but the air is so clear. But they have school and I have to go to work early tomorrow, so I doubt that I will bring them. But there will be another time, there will always be another time.