Today is the Saturday before Christmas, and the world greets us with a rare winter kindness: wide blue skies, golden sunshine, and the promise of a day without rain. It is my first full weekend of freedom since starting a new job in October—and the first dry one in some time. We set out with excitement and intent. This day will not be wasted.
Our Sunday adventure begins later than usual today. The week behind us—crowded with routines, early alarms, long hours and late nights—has taken its quiet toll. And so this morning, for once, I gift myself permission to rest. The rare luxury of letting the dawn unfold without me.
When I finally stir, slow and unhurried, Carys sits by my side, watching me with patient expectation. She knows, instinctively, by the clothes I’ve pulled on, that today is a day built for distance—a day measured not by clocks or calendars but by footsteps, open fields and the promise of discovery.
This morning, I wake to the quiet, insistent call of the hills—as though the wind itself whispers my name across the valley. There will be no slow Sunday slumber for us today. Instead, we trade the warmth of the duvet for the cold breath of the high trails, answering an invitation from the wild that always seems to wait for us.