Sunday returns with its familiar promise of adventure—a single, precious day carved out for wandering, after six straight days of work and routine. It is meant to be a day for the hills, for high places and long views. But one glance outside tells me the weather has other ideas. Rain lashes the windows with fierce determination, and the horizon dissolves into a long, unbroken smear of grey. The world looks as though it has been washed of colour overnight.
Still clinging to hope, I cradle my morning coffee and check the mountain forecast, searching for even the slightest possibility of respite. But the truth arrives plainly: a day of unrelenting rain and high winds lies ahead. Once again, the weather steals my ambitions of ridge lines and valley vistas. Instead, today the Medlock Valley will become our playground—closer to home, shaped by woodland, water, and its own quiet histories.
We set out on foot, trusting—perhaps foolishly—that the rain might show mercy. The sky hangs heavy in layered shades of grey, but the air is mild enough, the wind playful rather than fierce, the drizzle soft and bearable. I choose to walk lightly today, leaving my heavy-duty hiking clothes, backpack and umbrella behind, accepting whatever the weather has planned for me. A certain freedom arrives when you stop trying to outwit the rain.
Near the main roads, I’m reminded that Carys belongs to the wild trails, not the busy streets. She stiffens each time a truck passes, barking her disapproval at the loud, hulking beasts hurtling by. Her instincts protest this mechanical intrusion. We don’t linger here. A quiet farm lane leads us away from the noise, guiding us toward a long, tree-lined path that once held the weight of old railway tracks.
Here, the world softens. Trees stretch over the trail, their bare branches clasping like old friends embracing, forming a shifting canopy above us. Beyond the treeline on both sides lie open fields and meadows belonging to nearby farms—wide spaces where the land remembers how to breathe. It’s a peaceful route, favoured by dog-walkers and runners and wanderers seeking gentler ground.
The rain thickens now, heavy enough to darken the earth beneath our feet, but not enough to dampen Carys’ spirit. She trots ahead, raincoat shining, nose pressed to the edges of the path where the wild things dwell. The valley speaks to her in scents and rustles.
Through a clearing in the trees, a small brown rabbit appears in the muted light—an unexpected gift from the morning. It stands for only a moment, framed by rain-softened branches, a small pulse of wildness in the stillness of the meadow. Then, in a streak of tawny light, it vanishes into the undergrowth, leaving behind the faint impression that something enchanted has just passed through.
This place is rich with wild things: deer that slip between the trees like shadows at dusk, foxes that weave mysteries into the night, hares and rabbits and voles and mice that stitch their stories through the long grass. And above them, the hunters of the sky—owls perched in silent patience, kestrels lingering on the wind, kites and peregrines carving their circles through the air. But today, the landbound creatures roam freely, knowing the steady rain will keep the danger distant for a while.
A signpost greets us at the end of the footpath, three long arms outstretched: Hartshead Pike, Tameside Trail, Park Bridge. On a dry day, I would choose the woodland climb to the Pike, where the valley widens beneath us. But the rain has grown relentless, and the seams of my jacket have surrendered to the onslaught. My shoulders are damp, my sleeves wet and cold against my skin. We turn instead toward Park Bridge, crossing an old and broken timber bridge, the river raging beneath.
Here in this place, the past rises all around us. The remnants of the ironworks linger—stone walls, foundations, machinery—monuments to a time when this valley rang with industry. Now they stand silent, void of purpose, softened by moss and memory.
We pause beneath a stone archway for shelter. There are high stone walls here, but no roof, only the faint illusion of refuge. Still, it gives me a moment to jot down the morning’s impressions as rain drips steadily from the edges of old stone.
As we resume our walk, we are met with a choice: a flooded road or a trail thick with mud. The road feels like the lesser challenge, so we ease our way along it, stepping around scattered pools, until we reach a stretch where the entire road has surrendered to water. A long, deep puddle stretches from one verge to the other, turning the path into a narrow, reflective river.
Carys pauses beside me, her gaze lifting to mine, waiting for instruction with that quiet intelligence she carries so easily. There is no way around it—only through. I give her the nod to continue, and she springs forward without hesitation. She leaps across the water with effortless grace, as though the rain has somehow lightened her, lifting her above the weight of the world. I, on the other hand, must wade—slow, careful steps through the cold water. My boots hold steady, keeping my feet dry, perhaps the only part of me untouched by the rain. Everything I wear is damp now, some of it soaked through to the skin. The rain has tested my devotion this morning.
With my hood drawn tight and my head lowered against the falling curtain of water, we pick up our pace and follow the path toward home. Not far now. Warmth awaits—a hot bath, dry clothes, the familiar comfort of returning. And already, even as my clothing clings wet against me, I can hear the afternoon calling me back into the wild.
There is something humbling about a morning like this—a reminder that adventure does not always require blue skies or sweeping views. Sometimes the rain becomes the story, pulling us inward, asking us to pay attention to things we might overlook on brighter days: the shelter of a tree, the fleeting flash of a hare, the quiet resilience that rises when plans must change. The valley, soaked and shining, has its own beauty to offer. And perhaps there is a kind of wisdom in accepting the day as it is, rather than waiting for the day we imagined.
Visitor Comments
I share your love of walking in the rain and you captured that feeling perfectly. Your writing has such a gentle, poetic flow.
Lauran - Manchester.