My first encounter with the Eastern Lake District (where I now live) was seeing the massive shapes of the Howgill Fells through the windows of a train en route to Scotland. I was amazed then, and am still amazed now when I live so close to them, by the brooding power of these strange, smooth hills.  They are neither of the Lakes nor of the Pennines. Wainwright called them "sleeping elephants." They border the Lune Gorge, through which runs one of the most ancient trackways in the area, a route that the British and the Romans adopted, then the droveways and toll roads, to be followed by the railway and finally the motorway of modern times. I could write a learned article about the facts, but no medium but poetry can embody the atmosphere. Does it work?