I am writing to you from somewhere near Ambleside, deep in a bitter winter landscape changed irreparably by thousands before me. I haven’t been for some time, and I found myself taking stock of the ways life has changed since I was last here.

I will not always tell you how much you are missed; I will not burden you with that knowledge. But know that I believe we share a kinship so divine it often makes me question my own sense of being. That we’d each find our own and build on this clan – three of the most beautiful souls I have ever had the honour of breaking bread with – well, this cannot have been by luck.

I’ve been thinking a lot about religion lately. We went to the cathedral (the cathedral!) to see the old school’s carol service this Christmas. I always feel cheated on such occasions. The money, the millennia of tradition, the time and the effort. The art and the expression. A life’s work dedicated to it all. I was not made to have it, but I will never understand.

These heavy skies make for a clearer head. A single silhouette breaks the skyline, so clear-cut in the winter sunshine. I feel a deep envy for somebody just like me, perhaps conquering hills just like mine.

No. To conquer is perverse. I am merely a guest, so grateful for their hospitality. A guest whose presence is surely not noticed.

It is easy to find religion in these hills. It is easier to find it in your company.