I live in a valley surrounded by mountains, locally called The Fells, a name which originates from the Old Norse word for mountain. I watch the sun rise in the morning over the eastern Pennines and set again in the evening over the distant Lakeland Fells, which provides a rhythm for my days. We’ve had our first snow of the winter this week ‘on the tops’ and the sinking evening sun briefly lights the fells overlooking my village with streaks of red.

When I’ve been away from home and reach the Howgills at Tebay, with its heart shaped wood visible from both car and train, I know I’m home and despite having visited 42 countries during my lifetime there’s still nowhere I’d rather be.

As a child we had frequent Helm Winds, the only named wind in the UK. This started as a long roll of dense and broiling cloud, known as the Helm Bar, which sat atop Crossfell before developing into gales so strong you literally couldn’t stand up. It’s been years since I’ve seen a true Helm Bar or felt the full force of the Helm Wind, a consequence no doubt of climate change.

I feel somehow safe in the shadow of the hulking Fells and live in harmony with their ever changing moods. The brooding storms of Autumn, the desolation of Winter, the hope of Spring and the gaiety of Summer.

The energy of the fells is timeless and mystical. They hold stories which we will never hear and secrets which we will never know, traditions and rituals long since lost. For thousands of years they have kept sentinel watch and will remain for thousands more when I am gone.

I feel these ancient rocks in my very bones. They call to me and sooth me, uplift me and protect me. Here is where I belong.