The Beast of Cumbria

The hills were cold. Really cold. I’d made for Grasmere immediately after burying a friend back in Rockcliffe. I didn’t know whether to dress for the funeral or the hike, so I’d obviously decided to dress for neither.

Within hours, my coat was damp, my cheap jeans were shrink-wrapped to my legs and my boots were caked in sheep shit.

I spent the rest of the first day exploring the village, eating gingerbread and questioning the locals. No one had much to say about the beast sightings. Not at first.