With the wet December sleet pelting down on his tweed cap, John Lewis-Stempel and his terriers ascend Chimney Bank on Spaunton Moor for a breath of cold, damp air and to survey James Herriot country.
Out on the wild, windy moor, there was no one around but the dogs and me. The sleet was unremitting and cruel like parody, too thin, too seedy, to be proper snow. Light snow remained on the ground, however, left over from the wuthering flurries of the night.
On a clear day…
