wake me up when we cross the county line

Back in the Vale, weather always on the cusp of ice or post-rain that you never see fall, frosting and unfrosting. Dales to the West, up towards the watershed and the river brim full, Moors to the East. Lumps on all horizons. In the Vale are silos rising from flat fields and farms, some of which are all-but abandoned and occupied by a breed of person much like the "squatters" you find in H.P. Lovecraft. Dusty rooms full of unpriced antiques, windows that look out onto yards strewn with hay. Arterial roads and railways and villages with quiet pubs that have Sky TV on in the corner, out of town garden centres frequented by couples who listen to Jim Reeves in the car on the way home.