They looked upwards and reckoned they had another forty minutes to go. Johnny rifled around his bag and handed her a dense chewy nut bar. She devoured it and gulped some more water. Refreshed, they set off again and didn’t speak until they reached the next false summit, a hundred metres from the top. They could no longer see the car park and everything below looked like a collection of miniature dolls and toy pieces in an intricate game. The cars on the A66 looked tiny and the town of Keswick looked like a small village. Derwent Water in the distance shone in the late sun and they were silent as they took in the view. There were no sounds and they imbibed the peace, only on offer in such a place.

‘Look, Castlerigg,’ Johnny said, pointing far away in the distance. He knew the fells like he knew the way to every pub in Pooley Bridge – with his eyes closed. But then he had to. Being a mountain rescue volunteer in Cumbria was like being a cabbie in London. She followed his hand and was just about able to make out the ancient stone circle. From their vantage point, it was easy to see why the ancients had chosen the site and she wondered if Neolithic people hiked up here, or if they thought it magical and threatening: something to admire from afar and even worship. No one knew.

She could even just about make out the shadows cast by the stones, making it look as though it was on fire.

Another twenty minutes and they were stood on top of the mountain, at the trig point, looking across the whole of the National Park. Skiddaw sat silently next to them and no one else was around. They took out warmer clothes and sat down together, huddled and satisfied. Johnny took out more food from his bag and she accepted it greedily. After a hike like this, they both knew that whatever Ted produced, they’d have no problem devouring. Ted enjoyed cooking for guests and he made a mean casserole.

‘So, Josie’s been at the climbing centre how many times this week?’

‘This is her third night.’

‘Definitely a boy.’

Eventually, their decreasing body temperatures drove them off the mountain and back down to their descent. It was much quicker on the way down, though tougher on their thigh muscles, and they came within sight of the car park after only half an hour. Across the busy road, Kelly could see the Birkett Mire campsite and she thought of the animal cruelty case from 2005. The animals were reported missing from various owners and farmers from homes and farms as far away as twenty miles. The birds belonged to nobody. Some of the cats were strays. To be honest, more fuss was created by farmers losing valuable sheep than the public response to finding tortured pets.