Tribal swirl tattoo along the ribs

The col above Scarrow Bank is finally clear of snow, and I have hauled the chain, the theodolite and Mr Pell's bad temper up to the saddle at last. You will laugh, but the wind up here does not blow in one direction. It curls. Yesterday it lifted the sheet off my drawing board and walked it along the scree in a long swoop, then dropped it at the foot of a cairn as neatly as a butler setting down a tray.

Pell says the old drovers' road was laid by water before it was ever laid by men. Where the meltwater pours off the ridge it has cut channels in the rock that run in spirals, tight at the top and loosening as they fall, with small eddies left behind like knots in a rope. I sketched them for three evenings. The one I cannot stop looking at sits beneath the eastern tor, where two streams meet and make a pale swell that flicks out at the tail like a fish turning. I measured it twice and it came out the same both times, which I took as a good sign.

On the last morning the fog rolled up from the valley and the whole pass went white except for that one curve of dark stone. I stood at the edge and understood that the lines I had been drawing were not mine at all. The water had drawn them first and was only waiting for someone patient enough to copy them down.

I am bringing the sheets home with me. Keep the kettle warm.

Yours, Tess