East of Bakewell, the Monsal Trail peters out like the frayed end of a rope, and it’s not obvious which of several strands to follow. So I have often paused here, considering my next move, under a field of rough sheep pasture that runs down from Manners Wood. It’s a lumpy patch of ground that seems to resent its current use. You sense it wouldn’t take a long human absence before its patches of scrub reclaimed lost territory. But for now it remains occupied.
About to move on, I paused at the unmistakable mewling of a buzzard and looked up. A pair of crows was on its tail, invading its airspace, chasing it off, primaries spread like fingers, before turning again for another pass.
