and then as the last flame coloured glows fade away the walkers, cyclsists, photographers, snoggers, selfie-takers, dog-walkers, and substance smokers, flow down the hillsides and from any west facing vantage point. Hundreds and hundreds of them, Win Hill, Higger Tor, Mam Tor, as far as the eyecan see. Like sauce flowing down an ice cream. Still t-shirt weather at half eight. Within a ten minute window all the car parks and lay-bys empty and folk leave. Him from the golf and her from the A3 stay, both in the Golf and get ‘better acquainted’. Paradise by the dashboard lights. The Edge is empty now and the ewes and the owls and the bats and the voles make it there own again. Quiet. Ain interior light comes on in a camper under Mam Tor at the other end of the Valley. Quiet. Along the edge alone and still light enough from the embers of the sunset. I turn round above the Plantation and wander back. The trig. The old cart tack. Something of size legs it down the old practise trenches from the war. I sit in the heather. A Swaledale chomps a metre or so away accepting of my presence. Sheffield glows. Home calls. Thursday ebbs away.

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