I rise with the dawn, feeling the hush of a Sunday that should be a day of rest—yet for us, it is a summons to wander farther. The world is still draped in the lingering chill of night, even as the sun climbs boldly across the sky, spilling golden light over the horizon. I pull on my boots, slip the leash onto my faithful companion, and step out into the quiet promise of the day.
The earth beneath our feet is slick mud that clings to every step. I can already picture the inevitable return with paws and boots painted with mud—a living reminder of the path we’ve taken. The air carries the faint scent of wet pine and loam, a perfume that evokes a mix of emotions, making the heart feel both heavy and light.
Music today—Geoff Robb’s acoustic strings, soft and intimate. The volume is barely a whisper, just enough to cradle my thoughts without drowning the forest’s own symphony. Each chord feels like a gentle tide, pulling my mind toward calm, allowing the world to settle into a slower rhythm.
Duckweed spreads across the still water like a luminous emerald blanket. I can’t resist the impulse to toss a twig into the water. The splash creates a perfect brown circle that ripples outward, then the green carpet rushes back, swallowing the disturbance in seconds. It’s a fleeting reminder that even the smallest actions are quickly reclaimed by nature’s steady hand.
Our trail winds beneath a cathedral of beeches and sycamores, their trunks rising like ancient pillars. A sudden gust sweeps through, shaking the canopy and sending a cascade of yellow‑tinted leaves spiralling down onto the forest floor like a patchwork quilt of amber and ochre, each leaf a soft percussion against the silence.
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Halfway along, a massive beech lies overturned, its roots exposed like a wounded giant. The wind that felled it must have been fierce, ripping this steadfast sentinel from the earth after decades of quiet endurance. I pause, contemplating its fate: will it continue to grow on its side, side branches reaching defiantly toward the sky, or will it surrender to decay, feeding the soil that will eventually nurture another beech? In its fallen form, the tree tells a story of resilience and surrender, of the relentless cycles that govern all living things.
Further ahead, a carved pumpkin rests among the fallen leaves—a relic of Halloween nights past. Only two evenings ago, it proudly guarded a doorstep, its grin inviting children to knock and claim treats. Now, abandoned in the woods, it becomes a modest offering for the creatures that roam here, a reminder that celebrations fade, leaving behind only traces for the wild to reclaim.
Every step today feels like a meditation on the perpetual dance of birth, growth, purpose, and decay. Autumn unfurls around us, painting the world in hues of fire and ash, reminding us that beauty and brutality are twin threads woven into the same tapestry.
We emerge from the trail near a weathered cattle shed, where the herd inside vocalises their protest in low, resonant moos. Carys, ever curious, lifts her ears, listening intently to their call. Her head tilts, eyes wide, as if the chorus of the cows were a secret language waiting to be deciphered.
As we turn back toward home, the mud clings stubbornly to our shoes, the leaves rustle underfoot, and the echo of the forest lingers in our minds. The day has been a long, winding walk, but each moment—each breath of wind, each splash of water, each fallen leaf—has etched itself into the pages of my journal, turning a simple Sunday into a poem written in mud, music, and the quiet awe of nature’s endless cycle.