These hills and moors of mine. I can’t imagine ever knowing anywhere else the way I know this landscape. I’ve been walking them alone for the last twenty years. I feel safe out here. I know where I am (and who I am…) by the shape of the hills.
I ran away from Derbyshire, as soon as I could. I went to Durham; it wasn’t far enough. I went to Nepal; it still wasn’t far enough. I couldn’t escape the memories. Then I moved to Hampshire. That was a distance too far. I didn’t belong there, couldn’t settle. There were no hills, no open spaces. I couldn’t breathe. The memories crowded closer.
And then I came back to Derbyshire. To the hills. Half the time, I’m still desperate to escape, anywhere, but on the journey back, I’m looking out for that first glimpse of the familiar scenery.
This afternoon was a much needed oasis of calm in a crazybusy week of conflicting schedules. I’m thinking of magicking up an eighth day, just to get some time together.