Today is the first day of February. We leave early, stepping out into a world that is damp but gentler. The persistent rain of the night has eased, leaving behind an air that feels clean and fresh. The dawn light is brighter than expected, a definitive shift in the season.

We step out this morning into what feels like a generous gift. Blue sky and bright sunshine have taken command of the landscape, pushing cloud and rain aside—perhaps only briefly, perhaps just for a day or two, but we accept the offering gladly and walk.

As we walk this morning, I notice a subtle but unmistakable shift in the world. The darkness has loosened its grip. Early dawn light returns, tentative but present, and for the first time this winter, my torch retreats to the quiet darkness of my pocket. We move now in relative brightness, guided by the soft, growing confidence of the day.

I am fortunate to work relatively close to home. Although I usually drive—out of habit, speed, convenience—there are several routes between house and workplace that thread through the same fields and meadows I walk with Carys. Paths I know well. Paths that slow time. This morning, I choose to walk.

The weekend has finally arrived.
This is my first entry of the week—not through neglect or laziness, but necessity. The days behind me have been heavy with work and training, a period of preparation for what I hope will be a full and demanding season ahead. Time, for once, has not bent easily.

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.

We step out into another subzero weekend.
Each day the weather changes places with itself: mild handing over to rain, rain yielding to frost, frost shifting to ice—each taking its turn, as though politely relieving the other after a long shift. Winter cannot settle. It paces, restless, trying on its moods, testing our resilience.

The morning is dark—darker than it should be.
The night has drawn a grey veil carefully over the world, muting everything beneath it. Visibility collapses to a few short feet. The air is cold but gentle, lacking the sharp hostility of recent mornings. This is a softer cold, damp and patient.