Was this the last warm day of the year? The stubble fields below glinted in the afternoon sun, the hawthorns climbing the rise seemed to have fallen asleep. Wheeling through the little lanes and winding roads of the Hambleton Hills, I pulled in at my favourite stretch of beck and had lunch under the packhorse bridge. Feet dangling in the stream, reflected sunlight dancing on the arch above me, I listened to the play of water echoing against the stonework.