High Peril

Too early in the morning I had to drive over the most deserted road in England, the road where I muse on every other stressed out, white-knuckled driver in the country driving to work and hating it. This is the roof of England, or if not the roof, then perhaps the attic window. There is nothing, except for a few glazed sheep looking like party go-ers returning from an all-nighter in Alston, and that winter light that is so unimaginable to anyone who's never driven through it. You drive like it's your last morning on earth, stopping on the edge of the road simply to gaze at the beauty of it all.

And here's what I like. On these sheep filled, grass-filled moors where to see another person is a revelation, there will be a sign like this from the MOD, about the flying of red flags (as if any flag could withstand being reduced to tatters within seconds up here) about danger. Danger! I always almost kill myself up here swerving to avoid a lamb, or a stoat, or sometimes a rare butterfly that has strayed too far above its horizon.

This a road for jaded dreamers. I loathe driving, but whenever I swoop across this road I feel like I'm flying.