Outdoors it’s cold and wet. Sleet and driving rain lash against cobwebby window panes. An angry east wind howls through distant hilltop trees; their bare branches silhouetted like skeletons against a dark and threatening sky. Black crows bicker and cackle as they wage war on the wing, straining and struggling against an invisible force. At the church next door, high above the grey slate roof that glistens in the rain, a bell tolls five. And in the shadow of its wall, a blind dog howls, pining lonely for his mate who's newly buried by the fence.

Indoors it’s warm and dry. There’s an orange glow through the sooty glass door of the bedroom stove. The telly’s on but the sound’s turned off. Bold, bright colours flicker on the screen. An exotic beach and a bright blue sea. Must be a travel programme. Or maybe a documentary. I lazily get up out of my comfy armchair to put another log on the fire. The dogs mistake it for a sign that we’re going walkies. Damn. Okay, you win. Best get it over and done with.

They rush downstairs, I follow behind. They queue by the door, I go to the lounge. They run in after, I look at my gear. What’ll it be? Depends where we go. The cemetery run. Right, decision made. That means an over-pair of walking socks, GoreTex-lined ‘Lowa’ commando boots (the best, and entirely necessary out here), heavyweight wax jacket, warm fleece, German army overtrousers and GoreTex beanie. Could wear the waterproof Barbour hat but it blows off in the wind. Muzzle for Sprock? Nah. Never met another dog up that track, even in the dry. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this.

Ten minutes later, I’m fully dressed and ready to roll. Jock, dammit, has already wee-ed in the hall. Drive the short distance to the other side of Poussanges. Park just before the recycling bins. Really muddy. Decide to stop on the high ground further up by the treetrunk stacks. Get wheelspin on the upward slope. Reverse. Check for a better line. Over on the left. Steam up in second, shutting off at the top. Must get trials riding again.

Head off down the muddy track, Jock running free but Sprock on his lead – might be someone at the cemetery with a docile dog. Past that hurdle, the coast is clear. Let Sprock off. He immediately splashes off full pelt in true Patterdale style. Jock hurtles after, slow by comparison but he’s the fastest Westie in the west. No question. I follow behind carefully choosing my steps through the thick brown mud. The track’s been cut up by the logger’s tractor; a huge tyretrack either side of a central muddy ridge. And outside them, brambles and thorn bushes. Little choice but to splosh on through. I catch up with the dogs by the old orchard section where they’ve both stopped for a crap under different trees. We’re already soaked and covered in mud. Doesn’t really show on Sprock because he’s naturally brown. But Jock looks a mess. Top half white(ish), bottom half black, and dripping wet. Big smile on his face though. Panting hard with a little pink tongue.

After the orchard, the woods on the right open down to a hillside field. Bored with sploshing through muddy tyretracks, I duck the wire fence and cross the field towards the valley. The dogs come running after. Sprock heads straight for the forest edge where he once chased a couple of deer. Patterdales never forget. Maybe they’re there again. Or maybe not. Jock starts rolling in a lump of manure. Then washes his face on a wet clump of grass. Across the valley, there’s a view of Poussanges with orange and grey rooftops shining in the rain. Just see our house to the left of the church, white woodsmoke blowing west from the right hand chimney. Fire’s still in then. Pretty good view from here.

Back on the track, the tyremarks have ended. Walking’s easier now. The track descends between a cowfield on the left and a pine forest on the right. The cattle are there in the distance, white ones, about a dozen in all; one bull, the rest cows. Sometimes put Sprock on his lead here if the cattle are close. He gets spooked into barking, just because he’s scared. And if a cow runs off, he’ll chase. Can’t have that. Jock, on the other hand, has a completely different attitude. He gets all perky, like he wants to play. Doesn’t seem scared; maybe he thinks they’re big white Westies. And it’s the same with the cattle. They seem very intrigued, like they think he’s a little white bull. Amusing to watch.

We go down past the cowfield and into the forest. There’s a strong smell of pine where a hillside area has recently been cleared. A new view’s opened up on the right, out across the valley to another forest beyond. On a clear day, you could probably see for miles. But not today. So we turn around and head back up the hill and past the cowfield again. Suddenly notice there are two small calves in the herd. Probably only a couple of days old. Not exactly perfect conditions for newly-borns. Better get Sprock back on his lead. Luckily the dogs seem more interested in woodland smells rather than distant cattle, so we pass the cowfield without incident. Let Sprock off at the top, just before the orchard. Again he runs off across the field to where he chased those deer. Eventually catches us up again as we’re picking our way through the muddy puddles and deep tyretracks near the cemetery. Quickly get him back on his lead, shove them both in the car and head for home.

Back indoors, I give them a rub down with a smelly old towel. Jock loves it but Sprock doesn’t. Don’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s wire-haired. Then feed them, feed myself and once again settle down in front of the telly and bedroom stove. Nod off. Couple of hours later I'm rudely awoken by Jock demanding their evening stroll up to the granite cross and back. Once more unto the breach. The pouring rain and howling winds have thankfully ceased. But it’s pitch black outside. Not even a moon to light our way. Can only just about make out two rows of puddles vaguely reflecting the night sky. Keep to the muddy central ridge. Make it to the cross, have a quick word, then about turn.

Arrive back home just as ten bells ring, echoing off into the clear night air. Then a goodnight hoot from a friendly old owl, ruffling his damp feathers, somewhere out in the dim and distant. I look at the stars and take a final breath before entering the house and shutting the door.

Another day ends in the back of beyond.