A COUNCIL OF DEFENCE The sun had sunk behind the moors when Peter Askew sat by an open window in his big, slate-flagged kitchen at Ashness.

All was quiet outside, except for the hoarse turmoil of the force and a distant bleating of sheep.

In front, across a stony pasture, the fellside ran up abruptly; its summit, edged with purple heath, cut against a belt of yellow sky.
The long, green slope was broken by rocky scars and dotted by small Herdwick sheep that looked like scattered stones until they moved.
The kitchen was shadowy, because the house was old and built with low, mullioned windows to keep out snow and storm, and a clump of stunted ash trees grew outside the courtyard wall.

A fire of roots and peat, however, burned in the deep hearth, and now and then a flickering glow touched old copper and dark oak with red reflections.

Collectors had sometimes offered to buy the tall clock and ponderous meal chest, but Askew would not sell.