We step out a little earlier than usual today. We often walk along the very line between night and morning, balanced on that tender seam where the world quietly changes hands. But this morning belongs wholly to the darkness—unclaimed, unbroken, unlit by anything except what we bring with us.
My head torch becomes the only visible light as we move from the woodland into the meadow, a solitary star stitched into the fabric of night. In this place, at this moment, the world sleeps. Even the wind seems to rest, holding its breath beneath the heavy veil of predawn.
The beam of my torch pushes forward, crisp and certain, lighting the path for Carys as she trots by my side, scouting, watching, sensing. Her body is all instinct—ears turning like compass dials, nose reading the world as if the darkness itself were a book of scents.
There is a particular kind of magic woven into the wild at night. When sight narrows, the rest of our senses rise up like loyal guardians stepping forward to take their turn. The air carries every sound with clarity—every rustle, every shift of unseen life. The familiar becomes unfamiliar, yet intimately known. This meadow, which by daylight is open and honest, now transforms beneath the cloak of night into something deeper, raw and ancient.
Trees, stripped bare by winter’s slow approach, stand as tall silhouettes carved out of shadow, their branches reaching upward toward the invisible sky. When the torchlight touches them, they glow at the edges, stark and skeletal, yet regal in their nakedness. In darkness, they are neither gentle nor soft; they are simply themselves—true, unadorned, without the daylight’s forgiving warmth. It is easy to imagine that this is the hour in which the land remembers what it once was before paths were carved, before fences stitched borders across it.
In the distance, a bright green light weaves and dances across the meadow—a lively flicker cutting through the darkness. It’s Stanley, the border collie, moving with the confidence of a creature who knows this world well. We don’t see him, not really, but his unmistakable fluorescent green shimmer reveals his presence. A kindred spirit wandering the night with his human, sharing our quiet reverence for these hidden hours.
As we turn towards home, the first signs of morning begin to gather at the horizon—a faint silver softening the edge of the world. The darkness loosens its hold, retreating gently, reluctantly. Carys pauses, tail raised, as though she too can feel the shift in the air—the subtle promise of daylight.
And she knows, with absolute certainty, that waiting for her at home is her advent calendar, and behind today’s tiny door lies a delicious treat. A small joy, but a joy all the same—one that bridges the realms of night and morning, darkness and light, with the simplest magic of expectation.