Boxing day we walked along Stanage Edge, sat eating cheese and lettuce sandwiches in the cold wind and clag. I kept trying to remember the names of the climbs either side of Quietus: failed. That was odd. They weren’t even on the tip of my tongue. I’ve sat under Stanage so many times in the sunshine, trembling from the usual incompetent five-minute adventure and thinking, “I’ll never forget this.” I suppose I haven’t. Still hope I’ll get my ashes scattered there. I could feel snow in the wind but it didn’t fall until later, when we were back in Sheffield. Cheese sandwich, the gritstone madeleine. It was like returning to an old life, but as some other, less convincing person. I miss an identity so clearly defined.