Today is Valentine’s Day.
February edges steadily toward spring, yet this morning I wake to a landscape locked beneath a silver frost.
The morning starts with a simple errand—a visit to the barber. On a Saturday it is usually busy, so I decide to arrive early, before the doors open, hoping to be first in the chair. My barber is kindly disposed toward dogs, and Carys enjoys the admiration she receives there, so she will come with me.
Winter is consistent only in its inconsistency.
This morning, the land is damp and cold—three degrees by measure, though the wind strips that kindness away, dragging the feel closer to minus three. It is the sort of cold that slips past fabric and settles quietly into bone.
Today, the focus of my walk—and of this entry—has shifted. The defining feature is not weather, nor landscape, nor wildlife, but something small and insignificant.
Crossing the meadow, Carys suddenly stops. Completely still. Silent. Her head locks into position, eyes fixed on a patch of long grass. I recognise the posture immediately: discovery. As I draw closer, the secret reveals itself—a bright yellow ball, half-hidden, waiting.