They run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley.

To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next to the abbey.

The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys' hoofs up the paved road below.

The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.

Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both.