This Sunday morning begins with a fragile promise. As I make my coffee, I glance out into the garden—dry, mild, quietly inviting beneath a soft quilt of cloud. For a brief moment, the day feels generous, as though it is offering us safe passage. But by the time the mug is empty, the familiar transformation has already taken place. Rain returns, unannounced yet expected, settling back into the land with calm authority. At this time of year, mild air and rain move together, inseparable companions drifting steadily through the season.
December arrives not with a whisper, but with a gentle growl—heavy rains and high winds, unrelenting and unsoftened until evening. The first breath of winter feels mild, but fierce and alive.
We step out this morning into a world transformed—a landscape left raw and battered by the wrath of Claudia, the season’s first great storm.
The streets, roads, and gardens wear a ragged cloak of debris. Garden bins have been tossed by the wind, scattering their contents across pavements and lawns. Fences lie collapsed, splintered wood jutting at odd angles, and trees have been torn from the earth, their roots reaching skyward in silent protest. Storm Claudia has left her mark, a signature written in chaos and broken form.
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.