We were in the hills halfway between Low Paradise Farm and High Paradise Farm when I stopped. “I won’t be a minute,” I called to the others. Taking a deep breath, I took a good, slow look around. The woods stretched in an autumnal quilt of red, gold and yellow. Somewhere below lay the cold, deep reservoir we’d stumbled over about an hour before, another secret kept by our Hambleton Hills. High, high above, buzzards sailed the willow pattern sky. From nearer at hand, a jay screamed as it collected acorns. We’d been walking for two hours up and around the wide forestry tracks, not lost but not exactly found either.The others, my wife and son, framed by a background of birch trees, were standing beside a little spring. Walking towards them, I tried to keep it al