I take my reflections today from our afternoon walk, a welcome shift in tone and mood. Afternoon carries a different kind of quiet, a softer light, a slower rhythm. And on a day like this—cold, damp, grey—the contrast is even more pronounced. The early winter darkness folds itself into the landscape long before its time, and the trail feels deserted, as though it has borrowed the stillness of an early Sunday morning.
The silence is vast—total and consuming, not gentle, not subtle, but immense. No birds calling from the hedgerows, no wind threading through the branches, not even the faint patter of leaves falling to the ground. The world feels muted, as if someone has turned the volume all the way down. Walking through such stillness is strange, almost surreal, like wandering through a held breath.
Then, abruptly, the silence cracks. A squirrel darts through the branches above us, its claws scratching bark, its tail flashing between limbs. Carys leaps to attention, ears sharp, body poised. She watches the creature vault from tree to tree with astonishing ease before it vanishes into the canopy, leaving only the echo of movement behind.
Further along, the path carries us beneath a pylon. These metal giants often hide behind the treeline, ignored and unremarked, but today the quiet makes their presence impossible to overlook. The low, steady hum of electricity fills the air—a sound usually swallowed by the world but suddenly pronounced, almost alive.
Silence has a way of revealing things we miss in the noise—the pulse of the land, the steadiness of our own steps, the presence of small moments that might otherwise go unnoticed. In the hush, the world becomes clearer, and so do we.
The sky deepens quickly toward darkness. The air grows colder, brushing my face with the first hints of night. The distant hills remain just visible, half veiled by pure white cloud or drifting mist. I imagine standing there among them, watching the clouds settle and lift along the ridges, touching the land with gentle ceremony.
We turn for home as the last of the day slips away. There is a comfort in returning—knowing warmth waits for us, a soft evening, a glass or two of whisky, and no demands of tomorrow. Only relaxation tonight, and another quiet adventure is waiting somewhere beyond the morning.