a curse. He either loped through the village on foot or wove dangerously on an ancient bicycle, his tawny hair smothered back under a fashionable French beret.
He was partial to discourse, and liked to draw his fellow villagers into political discussion, asking them to comment upon the troubles of old Europe, their feelings for Stanley Baldwin, but never made direct mention of the war, not even to Samuel or Teddy Hindmarsh, men who had shared memories of that horror, the insanity, the lost faith in leaders, and the suspicion that the present moderation was simply the country treading water. He was considered eccentric, pleasant, but better avoided unless the work for the day was complete, lest he keep a man talking for an hour or more. Mostly, Levell kept himself to himself in the old, crumbling hall, which was rented to him as a favour by Lord Langdale, who had bought several paintings from him and was something of a local patron. He ventured out early in the mornings, usually the first true tide of daylight after the herds had been moved, to run up the fells, his long legs taut with muscle, his hair aratty, sweaty mass, always talking softly to himself as he ran, softly, desperately, as if attempting to calm the energy within him that urged him to ascend mountains rapidly, to scramble along the precarious ridges like a bolting hare.
There were about twenty-five houses in the valley, most of them two or three hundred years old, that formed a dense clutch in the middle of the village and spread out as they progressed up the sides of the valley to make way for farmland. The fields undulated gently in the basin, steepening further out, where they were separated by the traditional enclosure of drystone walls. Oak and elm trees grew by the field walls, offering shelter for cattle and sheep from sun and rain.
On the low sides of the Rigg, a sharp, craggy ridge which ran up to the High Street mountain range, there was a dense covering of pine and spruce and half-way up the mountain, on the flat plateau of Castle Crag, were the foundations of an early British fort. At the end of the valley, a black, ragged-faced mountain called Harter Fell cast an enormous shadow over the head of the dale, almost to the foot of the village, and its north face was the last place to keep snow in the surrounding area, storing it in frozen black crevices until the May sun could warm it enough for it to trickle away.
On each side of the dale was a road, to the west side an old farmers’ track that had been used for the passage of animals and vehicles until the building of a new, concrete road on the sharper east wall in 1926, which cut through the darkness of the Naddle forest. The two roads met up at the bottom of the valley and then led as a single tarmacked highway to the village of Bampton, then on to Penrith, eighteen miles from Mardale. The western track was still frequently used, being closer to the upper fields of the farms. Along it grew hawthorn, gorse and broom. Brambles curled out on to theroad in the summer, there were wild raspberries to be picked and in June sticky, thorny roses bloomed, sweetening the air.
Further down, spanning the middle of the dale, the waves of a small lake lapped gently against the blue rock of the valley floor. The lake divided into two sections, the larger one, closer to the village, was known as High Water, and the smaller part at the bottom of the valley was Low Water. The two sections of lake were joined by a thin, deep channel known as The Straights, where fishing was always good. Four streams, Swanmere, Randale, Hopgill and Whelter becks, ran down into the lake, tumbling as waterfalls higher up in the fells on their journey. The rivulets from two tarns met up in the bow of hills at the head of the valley before they came down together in one large river, the Measand, which ran straight through the heart of the village, splitting into a tributary before joining High Water.
There was a stone, hump-backed
He was partial to discourse, and liked to draw his fellow villagers into political discussion, asking them to comment upon the troubles of old Europe, their feelings for Stanley Baldwin, but never made direct mention of the war, not even to Samuel or Teddy Hindmarsh, men who had shared memories of that horror, the insanity, the lost faith in leaders, and the suspicion that the present moderation was simply the country treading water. He was considered eccentric, pleasant, but better avoided unless the work for the day was complete, lest he keep a man talking for an hour or more. Mostly, Levell kept himself to himself in the old, crumbling hall, which was rented to him as a favour by Lord Langdale, who had bought several paintings from him and was something of a local patron. He ventured out early in the mornings, usually the first true tide of daylight after the herds had been moved, to run up the fells, his long legs taut with muscle, his hair aratty, sweaty mass, always talking softly to himself as he ran, softly, desperately, as if attempting to calm the energy within him that urged him to ascend mountains rapidly, to scramble along the precarious ridges like a bolting hare.
There were about twenty-five houses in the valley, most of them two or three hundred years old, that formed a dense clutch in the middle of the village and spread out as they progressed up the sides of the valley to make way for farmland. The fields undulated gently in the basin, steepening further out, where they were separated by the traditional enclosure of drystone walls. Oak and elm trees grew by the field walls, offering shelter for cattle and sheep from sun and rain.
On the low sides of the Rigg, a sharp, craggy ridge which ran up to the High Street mountain range, there was a dense covering of pine and spruce and half-way up the mountain, on the flat plateau of Castle Crag, were the foundations of an early British fort. At the end of the valley, a black, ragged-faced mountain called Harter Fell cast an enormous shadow over the head of the dale, almost to the foot of the village, and its north face was the last place to keep snow in the surrounding area, storing it in frozen black crevices until the May sun could warm it enough for it to trickle away.
On each side of the dale was a road, to the west side an old farmers’ track that had been used for the passage of animals and vehicles until the building of a new, concrete road on the sharper east wall in 1926, which cut through the darkness of the Naddle forest. The two roads met up at the bottom of the valley and then led as a single tarmacked highway to the village of Bampton, then on to Penrith, eighteen miles from Mardale. The western track was still frequently used, being closer to the upper fields of the farms. Along it grew hawthorn, gorse and broom. Brambles curled out on to theroad in the summer, there were wild raspberries to be picked and in June sticky, thorny roses bloomed, sweetening the air.
Further down, spanning the middle of the dale, the waves of a small lake lapped gently against the blue rock of the valley floor. The lake divided into two sections, the larger one, closer to the village, was known as High Water, and the smaller part at the bottom of the valley was Low Water. The two sections of lake were joined by a thin, deep channel known as The Straights, where fishing was always good. Four streams, Swanmere, Randale, Hopgill and Whelter becks, ran down into the lake, tumbling as waterfalls higher up in the fells on their journey. The rivulets from two tarns met up in the bow of hills at the head of the valley before they came down together in one large river, the Measand, which ran straight through the heart of the village, splitting into a tributary before joining High Water.
There was a stone, hump-backed
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