Ventured off A6 at one point near Bakewell to walk through the countryside on one of the many public footpaths I've seen. A pure treat--crystal clear stream with deep pools and many trout. I took off my clothes and somehow found the nerve to take a plunge into the icy water. Thick, grassy cow and sheep meadows, wooden step-ways in the fences, waterfalls and a lake with dozens of wild ducks. Many more of the beautiful trout beneath the stream's falls, thick forests on the nearby hills and on the other side of the lake. No other people. Eventually there was no path as such, just the steps in the fences. With the heavenly scenery and the quietness and the soft, gray mist, it was (for at least two kilometers)the best I'd seen of England since near Shap. Such an incredibly deep sense of mysticalness, as I passed through those short parcels of natural beauty that England puts forth every so often. There was still magic there, even with all the traffic and the row houses and the construction.

That evening, at dusk, I became all the more certain that the same spirits who had once inspired writers to use this land for so many tales of magic and heroism still dwelt there. It was dusk, right before the sky gave up the last vistages of sunlight, when I had gazed at a tall hill over Matlock to see what looked to be the ruin of a large castle. The castle walls looked as black as the soul of the devil himself, and the gray sky seemed to swirl angrily above it, as if part of a large flag of defiance.

Beneath the dark and almost featureless structure there still remained the walled hillside plots that had surely once been worked by many, many serfs. As I watched the castle, and it watched Matlock, the sky went from gray-black to all black, and from the valley below the castle there rose a a ghostly mist. It crept slowly up the hillside, plot by plot. How many nights had the mist and the castle and the night sky rendezvoused like that? How many more of those silent meetings on the hill were yet to come?

Yes, the castle was but a decaying relic of man's past, but what of the souls its sight had mesmerized and stirred to contemplation? What of all the souls clothed in mail and silk that had dwelt within that stone edifice? What of all the souls of those who had toiled to keep the castle's masters satisfied? What of all the souls of those--like me--who had only watched from afar? Had they all dissipated as completely as the mist did with the return of the morning light? I did not know. All I did know was that I was not far from them, wherever they are.

Steven