We took off swiftly and sped up Sycamore Hill, where trees of that name were in abundance. Beyond that, a road lead to a motorway, which stretched across a broad lake. Dale pulled the sun-roof back and turned up the stereo. The wind spilled in on our faces as we raced along the N11. Rich sienna and copper rock lead down from the road to the waters edge, a flickering and sparkling spectacle. Tree after tree passed us on the left. A small yellow shuttle bus, taking rugby supporters to a match, overtook us. Dale looked displeased when I put on the accelerator.

We left the road bridge and entered a thick oasis of low trees, which stretched the breadth of a small island. The trees covered and darkened the road, as we travelled further inland. I had wanted to take some photos during our trip, but my camera had vanished the previous day. The sun sprinkled in through dark olive leaves. It finally won, when the overcast trees gave way to a blue sky and low prickly aubergine trees. This wasn’t quite the savoury delight an epicurean like myself had envisaged, but none the less, it had made an interesting contrast to the lush green scenery we had left. Dale was also becoming bored with this sticky scene after several minutes, so he unexpectedly veered off the main road, taking a narrow country road down through marshes of streams and lines of brambles. This was the Lake District, an area rich in wildlife and beautiful to the eye. Water was abundant for miles, in various forms. Our road grew narrower and narrower, until it eventually became a small muddy track, of less than a metre in width. It was here that we abandoned our vehicle, and took to our feet, moseying up along that meandering path by the water’s edge of another grand lake. Tall trees fenced off by meshes of wire and wood, lead to an old wooden house. It looked abandoned and austere, as it peered over the shadowy silver waters of Loch Enoch. Would we check it out? Definitely.