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.

Saturday arrives with a gentle kindness. The sky cannot quite decide what it wants to be—blue pushing back against grey with determined, if perhaps futile, effort. The air is calm, almost warm, touched only by the lightest breeze. It feels like a pause granted.

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.

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.

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.