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One moment basking in the sun, the next knee-deep in snow

astonished at the way these tracks must have filled to the top

of their dry-stone walls during the April blizzards. To walk

has been the idea since we were small, and so we go on

along new paths and old, the way our parents led us,

listening for a curlew, looking at a weird extended ash,

checking our watches for the train, stopping for elevenses

among the sheep-droppings. It is a rhythm that we require,

that speaks of essences and immortality; not a pilgrimage

because there is no aim, the route is circular, but a stay

against age, climbing edge after edge, then out across

the moor above Eyam, that hostel you think you stayed in once.