Still in Wordsworth country

In the only local hostelry with wifi. I am looking out over their lawn where the table umbrellas are gathered like grey witches of distinctly ill omen. But there are people at tables and glasses next to them. Mild weather. Matt Monro on the lobby speakers.

I can't quite get used to mountains, even those of relatively modest size, as here in Grasmere. I love the fact that they are comprehensible mountains covered in green, and rugged rather than absolute. To have the land buckle around you is exciting. There must be so many places to hide! It's childhood again, like playing with toy soldiers in bed, raising your knees and placing figures at the top. It is comforting without being too peachy.

Folk come here to walk or climb. Some like fell running, like Helen Mort who is resident here but away just at the moment. There is a pun on 'fell' rumbling in the background. The verse: I do not love thee, Dr Fell, / The reason why I cannot tell, / But this alone I know full well: / I do not love thee, Dr Fell. And somehow I am sure I would not love him either. All that in four lines of which two are the same. Dr Fell is fell, a felon, a defile. I'd keep clear of Dr Fell.

All these travels like interstices in what could be the seamless fabric of home life - rising early, sitting at desk for hours, then retiring with just a short walk and a meal or two in between to interrupt the even tenor of an all but featureless way, apart from the interior landscape which remains thankfully unpredictable. A few fells and Fells there too.

At home C is kitten sitting while our two homies go into grouch and terror states. Somehow I can't see cats running a comfy B&B.

Home tomorrow, another seven and a half hours in the very lining of the those interstices with its sense of suspended time.