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.

Winter is consistent only in its inconsistency.

This morning, the land is damp and cold—three degrees by measure, though the wind strips that kindness away, dragging the feel closer to minus three. It is the sort of cold that slips past fabric and settles quietly into bone.

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.

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.