There was no place in the world for open country like this stretch of ground in Northern England and Scotland, for it was man’s country: it was neither desert nor icy waste; it had been on terms with man for centuries and was friendly to man. The hills were not so high that they despised you; their rains and clouds and becks and heather and bracken, gold at a season, green at a season, dun at a season, were yours, the air was fresh with kindliness, the running water sharp with friendship, and when the mist came down it was as though the hill put an arm around you and held you even though it killed you. For kill you it might. There was no sentimentality here. It had its own life to lead and, as in true friendship, kept its personality. It had its own tempers with the universe and, when in a rolling rage, was not like to stop and inquire whether you chanced to be about or not.
‚I appeal to you, sir […] this is a handsome country, but it rains unduly.‘
‚It would not be so handsome a country,‘ said Harcourt, ‚ did it not rain so frequently.‘
(Hugh Walpole: Rogue Herries)