WHARFEDALE THREE TRIGS

In a hard winter, there might be a handful of days such as this in the season. Often it seems there is just one.

Days when the snow is dry powder, blown on an icy breeze, when hoarfrost grows from the rock, when the peat is hard, the becks stilled to smooth silence. When The Dales take on the Cairngorms’ mantle and the world is white ice and blue.

Better days on the hill, there are none.

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Mountain magic

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Last light on Helvellyn