The sun glares down, the icy wind forgotten, left behind to chill and whistle across the exposed moorlands, flattening heather and leaving a frozen heart in the old stone walls. The river beside me runs shallower, the water brackish and coloured deep brown, running down high, rivulets catching in the light, a trail of diamonds within the expanse of maroon and purple that makes up the still, silent hills all around.
Wild, this place.
I run, one foot in front of the other, peat turning to stone, the only sounds now seeming amplified and singular in this space, this carved gap between ancient stone. A bird, flitting from heather to outcrop, whistling, calling. A breeze, an echo of the winds of just a few moments before, enveloping the land, stirring, jostling. And the relentless pull of my breath, the thud thud thud of my blood pulsing a beat, life and living. Body tiring but mind stronger, pushing and pulling and taking over, focus, on and on, so on I go.
Further and further and I lose track of time and I lose track of space and I lose track of problems and I lose track of people and niggles and daily life and nothing is important any more. There is just me, alone, alive, a part of the wild moors, an energy, a moment.
I run, one foot in front of the other.