Only one other human has set foot up this Moors-edge dale since a sprinkling of snow fell, and as I ascend a lone oak-bark grey roebuck melts into the trees.
I emerge on to a plateau where a band of starlings roves along a row of spindly pines which do little to curb the icy wind. Chattering goldfinches and twite racket about a cover crop gone to seed. There’s little to suggest what else is hidden here, among the dry stems, until I’m just a few paces away. If not for a rusty iron frame, I’d maybe notice nothing until an ill-fated step sent me down a brutal, near vertical 20-plus metre fall.
