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The October sun creeps over the lip of the hills, burning off the hoare frost with its warming rays and making the bracken glow bright rust. The early morning mist hangs at lifeless in the valley bottom, mingling with the wisps of smoke from the Rosthwaite chimneys. The steam from your breath condenses and slowly drifts away in the still air. All vestige of last nights storm has gone and the land rests before the next.
There are no wolves in Borrowdale
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Rosthwaite in the early morning mist, Cumbria