I am fortunate to work relatively close to home. Although I usually drive—out of habit, speed, convenience—there are several routes between house and workplace that thread through the same fields and meadows I walk with Carys. Paths I know well. Paths that slow time. This morning, I choose to walk.
The weekend has finally arrived.
This is my first entry of the week—not through neglect or laziness, but necessity. The days behind me have been heavy with work and training, a period of preparation for what I hope will be a full and demanding season ahead. Time, for once, has not bent easily.
I open my eyes this Sunday morning with visions of frost, ice, and snow. In my half-waking thoughts, I am already on the hills, already scanning white ridgelines, wondering which peaks might carry us today. A glance outside, however, alters everything in an instant, for the rain has returned. The ambition of adventure is not extinguished—only reshaped.
We step out into another subzero weekend.
Each day the weather changes places with itself: mild handing over to rain, rain yielding to frost, frost shifting to ice—each taking its turn, as though politely relieving the other after a long shift. Winter cannot settle. It paces, restless, trying on its moods, testing our resilience.
The morning is dark—darker than it should be.
The night has drawn a grey veil carefully over the world, muting everything beneath it. Visibility collapses to a few short feet. The air is cold but gentle, lacking the sharp hostility of recent mornings. This is a softer cold, damp and patient.
Winter has taken the weekend firmly in its grip.
The thermometer outside reads –6, and stepping into the open air, I feel no need to question its honesty. The cold is immediate, absolute, settling into skin and breath with quiet authority.
Today is meant for celebration, reflection, and resolution—a turning of pages, a resetting of intentions. While many nurse sore heads from late-night revelry, we step instead into a cold, damp morning that feels pure and honest. The sky is clear, the air sharp, and the world seems to have paused, as if holding its breath before beginning again.
I wake this Sunday morning with a familiar restlessness, the kind that arrives before thought has time to intervene. The high, open hills of Bleaklow are calling with the steady pull of inevitability. Some days begin with intention, some with invitation. This is both.