I open my eyes this Sunday morning with visions of frost, ice, and snow. In my half-waking thoughts, I am already on the hills, already scanning white ridgelines, wondering which peaks might carry us today. A glance outside, however, alters everything in an instant, for the rain has returned. The ambition of adventure is not extinguished—only reshaped.

Coffee in hand, I consult the weather forecast, quietly bargaining with geography. Perhaps a short drive might buy us clearer skies. But the Peak District, it seems, will share the rain with our valley today. There will be no escape. Only acceptance.

I spend a quiet moment considering where the day might carry us, before choosing a journey rooted in my own past, yet fresh for Carys. The Peak Forest Canal promises a gentle change of pace and perspective.

We begin at Portland Basin, following the canal toward Marple. I walk beneath the shelter of my umbrella. Within a few moments, a sudden gust—sharp, forceful, and entirely unapologetic—snatches at it, folding the canopy. My umbrella, faithful through countless walks, finally yields and buckles. Even the most reliable companions have their limits.

The canal lies still, its surface stippled gently by falling rain. And yet, beneath the water, a thin layer of ice endures—unseen, resilient, strong enough to carry the weight of geese who appear, impossibly, to walk upon the water itself.

We walk beneath the humpback bridge and cross the river. As a teenager, this was my playground. Countless hours were spent here—wandering the towpath, tracing the river’s edge, disappearing into woodland. Stepping beneath the pines now, long-dormant memories stir. Faces from a distant time rise, vivid and familiar, uninvited yet welcome. This place is special to me. It holds me in a way few others do.

Woodsmoke hangs in the damp air, drifting from the chimney of a brightly painted narrowboat moored along the bank. These slender floating homes line the canal’s edge—compact, cosy, and quietly defiant of excess. Homes for those who choose a simpler rhythm. I feel a familiar envy.

The rain grows heavier, offering me the chance to test a new poncho. I pull it over my head, enveloped almost entirely. It feels like walking inside a small, portable shelter—a tent made for motion. This is an object designed not for fashion, but for function, and it fulfils its purpose perfectly.

The canal feels abandoned, wrapped in near silence. Just the infrequent call of the birds, subdued by the steady drumming of raindrops on my hood.

We approach an iron bridge, and more memories surface. A factory stands across the canal here—my first job, at seventeen. Every day I brought my packed lunch down to the canal, choosing water and trees over the noise of the canteen. When it rained, I stood beneath this bridge, eating slowly, enjoying the brief peace away from the factory floor.

Now I stand here again, and all around me seems unchanged—all except me. I am much older now, tempered and wise through decades of life. But my core remains the same now as it was then—my passion for nature, my longing for peace, my need for solitude.

We continue along the canal where wild growth and industry exist side by side. Vast factories rise behind the trees, sheet metal walls painted green in a half-hearted attempt at camouflage. It is easy to forget that these canals were never built for leisure. They were arteries of industry—transport routes feeding mills, foundries, and factories that once powered the island.

The bridges still carry the marks of that history. Deep grooves scar the stone, carved by years of ropes rubbing against them as horses hauled heavily laden barges along the towpath. Labour has left its signature everywhere here, written into brick and gritstone.

As we walk, my mood darkens. Litter lines the hedgerows and floats along the canal’s edge, bottles, cans, wrappers, bags, deliberately discarded without thought or care. It is deeply upsetting. For all who care for this land, others treat it with indifference, or worse. I struggle to understand such neglect toward a place of such quiet beauty.

Four miles pass beneath our feet. The rain shows no sign of easing. And so we turn back, retracing our steps, the canal offering us the opportunity to catch the things we may have missed.

The rain eases as we reach Portland Basin. I pause and offer Carys a choice—the road, or more of the towpath. She chooses without hesitation, continuing onward beside the canal. She isn’t finished yet.

Ahead, two boys are absorbed in play, breaking ice along the water’s edge. One stretches prone on the damp ground, lifting a heavy slab from the canal. They throw it hard onto the surface, watching it explode into fragments that scatter and slide. A simple game. Pure and instinctive.

Not every walk delivers what we imagine when we first open our eyes. Some reshape us instead, asking for flexibility rather than fulfilment. Today was not a walk of summits and snow, but of memory, rain, and reflection.

Perhaps that is its quiet gift. The hills will wait. They always do. And sometimes, the paths closest to home—soaked, familiar, imperfect—have just as much to teach us.