Spylark

It was an hour before school, and Tom Hopkins was beginning the return leg of his morning flight. A half-eaten plate of toast at his elbow, he turned north and followed the drystone wall up the side of Raven Howe. A few Herdwicks, their russet flanks catching the morning sunshine, watched his shadow warily as he passed overhead. He drew level with the top of the hill, the sheep now brown dots on a cloth of green, and was about to continue over it before heading back across the lake for home, when he noticed a man looking straight towards him through a pair of binoculars.