We step out a little earlier than usual today. We often walk along the very line between night and morning, balanced on that tender seam where the world quietly changes hands. But this morning belongs wholly to the darkness—unclaimed, unbroken, unlit by anything except what we bring with us.
We set out just after sunrise, the morning air crisp and sharp with the returning frost. Overnight, the landscape has been brushed by winter’s delicate hand once again. Above, a pale blue sky, uninterrupted by clouds, and the sun a glowing orb suspended low, spilling golden warmth across the frost-bound earth.
The weekend arrives beneath a soft percussion of rain, tapping gently against the windows as though trying to rouse me with its persistent song. The day is damp, heavy, and cold—but it is mine. A single day of stillness carved from a working week, which I refuse to surrender to the weather.
This morning I wake to a shimmering, diamond-bright blanket cast across the land—winter’s familiar touch returning with its quiet authority. Every blade of grass, every fallen leaf, every humble stone is dressed in frost, glittering beneath the beam of my torch as though the earth itself has been dusted with crushed stars.
This morning unfolds as a quiet milestone in my journal—the first true freeze of the season. The day begins at -3°C, and the air carries that unmistakable sting that belongs only to winter’s earliest breath.
For the first time this year, my winter coat emerges from its summer slumber, shaking off months of stillness so it can once again stand guard against the cold. Hat and gloves return to their familiar duty. Their presence signals that the season has shifted.
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.
The sky greets us this morning with a soft kiss of rain—a delicate, silvery curtain falling from a dark, tenderly brooding sky. Dawn has barely broken; the light is diffused and pale, as though the sun itself hesitates to intrude upon such serenity. The world feels hushed beneath the rhythm of falling water, each drop a note in nature’s quiet symphony.
We set out later than our usual hour, the sun already high, a bright coin set into a cloudless blue. The air carries a crisp edge—the unmistakable breath of autumn—yet the sunlight wraps around me like an old friend, warm upon my face, softening the chill that lingers in the shade.
Today feels suspended, hushed, as if the world itself pauses in remembrance. Across the towns and villages of our island, people gather—veterans with polished medals catching the light, families wearing red poppies pinned to coats. They stand shoulder to shoulder at memorials of stone and bronze, their silence deep and dignified. A nation breathes together, hearts bowed in gratitude for those who once walked into darkness so we might live in the light.