Three mountain peaks on a heel

The rain has come in sideways off the car park again, and I have spent the morning under the awning with a crate of damp Cox's apples and a radio that only picks up the shipping forecast. Half the pitches have packed up. Tomas from the map stall next to me has stayed put, though, the way he always does, sitting on an upturned milk crate with his collar up and a biro in his teeth.

You'll remember he keeps a sketch under the counter in a plastic sleeve. Three peaks, drawn in pencil, the left one slightly taller than the others. He says it's the view from his grandmother's kitchen window in a valley he won't name, and I've never known whether to believe him. Last week he let me borrow it so I could copy it into my notebook. Pencil smudges in this weather, so he taught me to shade with tiny dots of pen instead. It takes forever. My hand cramped halfway through the second peak, and he laughed at me for saying so.

You asked whether I'd ever want to go up there. I don't think so, not really. I like the idea of it better when it's three small shapes I can hold in my palm, with the shadows picked out in dots that somebody else's patience put there. Tomas says the hills look like that only from a distance, and that nobody who has climbed them would bother drawing them at all.

The sun came out around four and the car park began to steam. In a puddle by the fish van, upside down and trembling, I saw three grey points with their dark sides turned to the light. I stood there longer than I should have. Write back soon, and tell me which one you think is highest.

Love, Ruth