You, dear fells, stand there, magnificent in your altitude and isolation, your flanks combed by the wind, your marshy depressions dark and mysterious and your stony tracks washed clean by tumbling streams.
And how do I repay you? By stumbling up and down your stony tracks, by disturbing your stones and muddying your crystal streams, by plotching deep into your dark marshes, by polluting your wild windswept tranquillity with groans and wheezing.
You give me an hour and a half of fantastic cardiac workout, in glorious sunshine, leaving me happily knackered and glowing with a sense of returning hill fitness. And I give you water-filled footprints, flattened rushes, muddy scars and stony scrapes.
Umm. Will you be OK by next week?