We set off later than usual this morning. The season is turning, and the darker dawns seem to lull even Carys into a slower start. She waits more patiently now for the light to arrive, as if she, too, understands that some things are worth waiting for.
No work today. She knows this. Her joy is quiet but unmistakable—an extra spring in her step, a soft nudge against my leg, the way she lingers at the gate, looking back as if to say, Come on, then.
These walks are as much hers as mine—quiet rituals stitched into the rhythm of our days.
The path through Daisy Nook welcomes us gently, a trail wrapped in the hush of early autumn. The poplars are the first to let go, casting their yellow-brown coats across the path like forgotten promises. The sycamores follow close behind, their leaves crunching beneath our feet in a soft symphony of decay and renewal.
The air is dry and unseasonably warm, a crispness just out of reach. Blue skies stretch above, but darker clouds wait on the horizon. An occasional breeze, sharp and sudden, brushes past—a reminder that nothing stays still for long.
We follow the old waterway—once a canal, once an industrial artery, now a quiet corridor where nature has reclaimed its space. A heron stands in the still water, a grey ghost frozen in the moment, watching and waiting, like the season itself poised between warmth and cold.
Crossing the bridge, we slip beneath the beech trees. Towering and ancient, they stand in solemn formation on either side of the trail—sentinels keeping silent watch. The light dims beneath their canopy, and our footsteps soften.
Something in me softens too—as if the hush is a kind of permission to pause, to let go for a moment. There’s a stillness here that feels sacred, like stepping into a memory not quite my own.
We find a bench and sit. The plaque reads, “In loving memory of Joe Whitworth, 1918–1999.”
Two proud oaks flank the spot, and the ground around us is littered with acorns—a quiet testament to the cycles that carry on, whether we stop to notice or not.
Further along, the evergreens begin to assert themselves. The holly hides in plain sight, patient and poised, waiting for winter to hand it the brush and say, Your turn now.
Before long, it will paint the woods in deep green and red, but for now, it watches and waits.
By the time we reach the end of the trail, the blue sky has gone, replaced with grey. The dark clouds move in, and the wind gathers strength—not angry yet, but insistent. Rain is coming. But that’s okay. We’ve walked for three hours, and the world has shifted just enough in that time for me to feel it.
Carys trots ahead, tongue out, happy and satisfied. She knows we’re heading home. Coffee waits for me, and for her, a well-earned bowl of turkey.
As we turn back, I realise—these walks are never just walks.
They’re chapters: small, sacred moments in the story of this season, this dog, this life we share.