I'd already put on my trusty Salomon GTX's at home all that remained was to throw on my down jacket and stuff a pair of gloves and a beanie into the pockets. Far from tranquil, the car park was rattling in the wind, I stepped out and within moments was tugging the beanie over my head and pulling the gloves on as the gusts swept across the moorland.

By now the cloud was really starting to fill in. The long clear stretches had vanished replaced by thick cover, though at least the horizon remained open. I left the moorland behind and rejoined Rotary Way telling myself I wouldn't be returning the same way. Instead, I'd head back via the upper edge of Rivington Moor.

The view back towards the summit was bleak to say the least: moorland blending into sky separated by shades of brown, black, and grey. But the same couldn't be said for the west, where the setting sun was just about to reappear from behind the cloud.

Just forty minutes from the summit, I felt an overwhelming surge of isolation the howling wind, the grey mass to the east, and a sunset burning to the west which sent adrenaline through me. I stopped for a moment and listening to the wind tearing through the main transmitter, almost intimidating. Only half an hour of light left now.

I began the gentle descent over the newly laid slabs, the brightness eye-watering. A quarter turn was all it took for it to shift from dull grey to blazing gold. Off to my left I caught movement on Rotary Way a solo mountain biker, like me squeezing the last out of the day. For a second our eyes met, no wave or nod, just two people passing through before continuing. Halfway between the transmitter station and Two Lads, the slabs dipped again, giving me an uninterrupted view of Rivington Pike across the moor. I could make out two benches perched at its summit with as many folk standing around them. It must have been howling up there too.