In summer though, as I stood and paused on the many chalk hills, my imagination?s ear was always playing Vaughan Williams? ?The Lark Ascending?, encouraged by the ridge-soaring birds, downland grass, and expanding skies. I mostly had the hills and figures to myself; too early in the mornings for most or, in the evenings, as others left to head back down for meals and pints. Some had a trickle of arrivals and departures, a child or dog leaping and running ahead of their family, or couples in the deep grass breathing in the sky and vista together, or walkers briefly halting enroute to their next summit. But the Hill figures can soon return to places of peace again. The billowing, warm, summer winds across them quickly muffle and carry away the visitors? conversations and calls to each other, as they continue further along the white paths or step away out of sight down the hill slopes.