Back in Arncliffe and thereabouts, the sense of duality stays with me. I revel in the pleasures of the countryside, the space, the near-silence. I love the mass of the hills, the way the landscape folds into itself, the textures of marsh and meadow, the skeletons of winter trees. And the colours! Green pales to dove-grey and sable in the mist; marram grass glows peachy pink in the late afternoon. On our last morning, the sky is suddenly clear blue, the fields bathed in real spring sunshine, the thrush loud in its celebration of the season. Pen-y-Ghent still looms over us, though, both hard and soft, limestone and grit. True north? it seems to say. Neither hard nor soft, neither one thing nor the other. Or maybe a bit of both.