Our morning walk is quiet, calm, and familiar—the kind of day where nothing demands to be photographed, and yet everything seems worthy of notice.
We set out just after sunrise. The air is cool, almost still, and carries the faint scent of woodsmoke. Carys trots ahead with her usual quiet enthusiasm, checking the hedgerows and pausing at every crossroads, waiting for the slightest gesture to guide her. Her presence, constant and alert, reminds me how in tune animals are with the rhythms of the world around them.
We take one of our usual routes—a loop that winds through woodland, along a river and into a narrow lane framed by overgrown hawthorn and blackberry brambles. Most of the berries are gone now, claimed by birds or late-season foragers. The leaves are starting to reveal the slow shift into the muted tones of autumn.
There is a single moment that stands out—a pair of deer watching us from the edge of a small field, barely visible through the morning mist. They don’t run. We watch each other for several seconds before they turn and fade silently into the trees.
These walks offer me a sense of clarity I rarely find elsewhere. There’s a rhythm to walking that allows thoughts to stretch out, settle, and reorganise. It’s one of the reasons I started this journal—to pay better attention to those quiet in-between moments, and to honour them with words and images.
No photographs today. Some days are better left entirely to memory.