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.
We set off later than usual this morning. The season is turning, and the darker dawns seem to lull even Carys into a slower start. She waits more patiently now for the light to arrive, as if she, too, understands that some things are worth waiting for.