Evening calm

It had been a hard day on the fells - high winds bowling me over above Wetherlam, driving hail and incessant rain, running on a bearing from Pike Of Blisco, intent on finding a mythical trod, the direct line towards Blea Tarn.
Evening calm in Borrowdale later that evening, watching as the light failed, falling from darkening fells, mists gathering in the gloom as the wooded valley floor flowed into the night.