North of Hargatewall, the country has an austere quality, a high limestone plateau with a tracery of walls the colour of old bones dividing oblongs of pasture. The hamlet’s name has nothing to do with gates or walls. It’s derived from Old English words meaning “herd farm by the spring” – a clue to the deep roots that farming here can draw on. Wildlife today was limited to the ubiquitous crows and rooks silhouetted against the milky blue sky or else resting on those white walls.

Cycling north, my attention was fixed on the horizon, where, in contrast to the green fields around me, the broad bulk of Kinder Scout was heavily frosted.

Then, off to one side, a broad-winged raptor muscled into the air. Days earlier, I’d spent a few minutes watching a red kite near here, so that was my first thought. These richly coloured birds only began breeding again in Derbyshire seven years ago, and I can count my sightings of them in the Peak District on the fingers of one hand. Yet when I turned, I saw at once that it was a buzzard, less nimble in the air and prosaically brown.

Working hard against the stiff northerly, she settled on a wall beside the road ahead of me. I was wondering how close I’d get before she took off again when a huge tractor came over the rise from the other direction. Well, I thought, that will spook her, but the buzzard stayed put, briefly turning her back to the tractor as it passed. The bird was still there as I approached, so I slowed for a closer look.

Six feet away, the buzzard crouched, as though preparing to leave if I came any closer, and I wondered what kept her there. Was she weak with hunger? Or sick? Or reluctant to waste energy against the cold wind? What remains with me now is the intensity of her eye, glossy black in the light, how the buzzard’s gaze drilled into mine, as if the world were simply endless calculation.