Sunday returns with its familiar promise of adventure—a single, precious day carved out for wandering, after six straight days of work and routine. It is meant to be a day for the hills, for high places and long views. But one glance outside tells me the weather has other ideas. Rain lashes the windows with fierce determination, and the horizon dissolves into a long, unbroken smear of grey. The world looks as though it has been washed of colour overnight.
The morning offers only a hint—a quiet promise—of what lies ahead: the first frost of the season.
The land has been washed clean and repainted in shades of winter. Every blade of grass is white at the tip, like a field of tiny quills dipped in moonlight. The trees shimmer as my torchlight passes over them, their branches catching the frost and scattering it in delicate glints, as if dusted with ground glass. We walk through the darkness with only the faintest blue glow rising behind the hills, the sky still black, but softening at the edges.
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.
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.
A strange, silvery mist has lain across the land this morning—a ghostly shroud still carrying the scent of smoke and celebration. The world feels hushed, as though the earth itself draws a long, slow breath after the chaos of last night’s revelry.
Bonfire Night has passed once more—a night of flickering fires and sparks rising into the sky with wild bursts of colour. And yet, beneath the noise and brilliance, there is always a quiet sorrow. Poor Carys spent the evening curled tightly in her bed, trembling through each burst of sound, her dark eyes wide with fear. The thunder of fireworks may delight humankind, but it terrifies the creatures who share our world. This, I think, is the single part of autumn that I wish I could erase—this cruel contrast between beauty and distress.
Saturday arrives with a sense of pause—a rare stillness between chapters. Yesterday marked my final day in a job that has shaped nearly seven years of routine and rhythm. On Monday, I’ll begin anew, stepping into a role with an outdoor clothing company—a fitting path, perhaps, for someone who has always sought meaning and sanctuary in the wilderness, the wind, the rain, and the turn of the earth. But for now, I drift in the gentle stillness between endings and beginnings. For this brief weekend, I belong nowhere in particular. I am unchained and free.
We set off just after dawn, when the first threads of light begin to weave through a sky still heavy with the night’s rain. The air is cool and thick with moisture, and the road beneath us shines darkly, mirroring the clouds above. Across the pasture, flocks of seagulls stand in still formation, their white feathers sharp against the dark, muted green.
The mornings come slower now. When I wake, the light hasn’t yet found its way through the curtains—just that deep, blue-grey half-light that feels neither night nor day. Carys is already awake, stretching at the foot of the bed, tail thudding softly against the floor. She knows the routine, and she’s always ready before I am.