A Lakeland post

They're an odd couple in the Landrover - bickering over everything in low, gruff voices. A father and son up on the fells moving sheep.
"Keep the gate open then!"
"It is open!"
"Hep, hep. Get out you lazy sods. They usually run."
"I know"
"What's wrong with them?"
Silence. The older man has clearly had enough of idle conversation. He stares out into the distance, where the mountains' outlines are grey and hazy even in this bright sunshine.

The Lakeland Fells feel like the back garden of these old guys - dressed in thick cotton trousers, collared shirts and caps, each clutching their own wooden walking stick. They roam the lower hills, imparting their wisdom to eager walkers, or conspicuously ignoring the steady traffic of holiday makers.

It's not really a wild landscape, parts of it could be mistaken for the work of Capability Brown, except that they were probably his inspiration. Perfect lakes, fringed with oak and beech trees and surrounded by mountains on all sides. At the edge of Grasmere lake two hills meet with a road running through, like the childhood landscapes I used to draw, only missing the sun peeking over the top.

Perhaps the best thing, and maybe what attracts the aged farmers to the fell walks again and again, is the feeling of sitting on top of the world, watching the toy sized trees and houses below. If only those damn sheep would run, you'd be master of all you survey.