Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty cars. All going East out of the National Park. Ninety. A hundred. Heading to the M1 and wherever. Against the flow i go. A few cyclists pass too, not far for them now hopefully, hunkered down in their buffs. It drops below zero. I park zip up the parka, re-shoulder my pack and pick up my crook. Now i’m against the flow of climbers as they walk off. Half a dozen of them debate and describe the car park they left this morning … Hook Car or Burbage Bridge ? they hope and go Eastwards. The line of rear lights heading towards the Steel City is almost one continual line now. I sit by the trig point. Snow just visible over on Kinder. A plane descends in to Manchester. Quiet. Cold. Grouse cackle like a Honda 50. A runner appears and we natter. His Garmin points him homewards, he takes a headtorch out of his sack and takes no chances, dances off over the boulders Eastwards too. There’s a night biker by Stanedge Pole. The moon wears a cold halo. Fingers tingle now. Something screeches to stay on the road at Fiddlers Elbow and roars over the bridge and East. On goes my hat. On goes my headtorch. On i go along the Edge and West.