He ran his fingers along the fissures in the rock, gazing at the water, warmed by its golden glow. He had made no plans about what to do next. It had called him, drawn him to it, and for now to be there was enough.

    Above him, the wind had caught the clouds, and the mist was thinning. Patches of blue began to appear. It was still early, but the tinker knew by nightfall the air would be sharp and cold.

    He put down his knapsack, gathered kindling and twigs, and coaxed a small fire into life. Over this, he rigged a metal frame from which he hung his pots. He took potatoes and a hunk of bacon from his knapsack. Soon these were bubbling in one pot while water for his tea boiled in the other.

    The climb had given him an appetite. He ladled...

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