The mornings come slower now. When I wake, the light hasn’t yet found its way through the curtains—just that deep, blue-grey half-light that feels neither night nor day. Carys is already awake, stretching at the foot of the bed, tail thudding softly against the floor. She knows the routine, and she’s always ready before I am.
Outside, the chill is immediate. The air feels damp, rich with the smell of soil and fallen leaves, and my breath drifts out in small clouds as we make our way down the lane. The world feels hushed—as if everything is holding its breath for a while before the day begins. The only sounds are the soft rhythm of Carys’s paws and the rustle of leaves underfoot.
The woodland greets us in its autumn skin—the trees thinner now, barer than they were a few weeks ago. Their leaves, once green and full of life, now blanket the ground in every shade of rust and gold. I love how they crunch and sigh with each step, that gentle reminder that another season is turning. Carys dashes ahead, nose to the ground, tail slicing through the mist. She’s completely absorbed in the small, invisible stories of the woods—the scent of a fox, the trail of another dog, the faintest rustle that might be a squirrel.
The path is muddier these days, and the puddles seem to appear overnight. My boots sink slightly with each step, and I can feel the damp chill through the fabric of my gloves. Still, there’s comfort in this small discomfort—it feels real, alive, unfiltered. The woods are never perfect this time of year, but they are honest.
As we go deeper, the light begins to wake the trees. Threads of sunlight stretch between the branches, catching on the mist like fine silk. The whole forest seems to glow for a few fleeting minutes—gold and silver and quiet. Carys pauses for a moment too, just long enough for me to catch up. She looks back at me with those bright, eager eyes, and for a moment, it feels like we understand each other perfectly.
I think that’s what I love most about these mornings—the space they create. Out here, before the world really begins, there’s room to breathe, to think, or sometimes to think about nothing at all. My mind often wanders as we walk. I think about how quickly the year is passing, how each season seems to slip by faster than the last. The older I get, the more I notice the small details—the way the air smells different each month, the way light changes the world, the way silence can be its own kind of company.
Carys doesn’t think of these things, of course. She lives entirely in the moment—delighted by the next stick, the next scent, the next patch of sunlight. Watching her reminds me that maybe that’s how I should live, too. Not always chasing, not always planning, just being.
By the time we circle back toward home, the sun is properly up. The frost that dusts the grass is melting now, and the air feels softer. My boots are heavy with mud, and Carys’s belly is splattered, but it’s nothing a warm, damp towel can’t fix. She looks utterly content, tongue lolling, her fur slightly damp, her eyes bright.
As we leave the woodland behind, I glance back once more. The light has changed again—brighter now, warmer — but I know it won’t last long. The days are shorter, the evenings darker, and soon even these morning walks will take place in near-night. But that’s the rhythm of things, isn’t it? The world turns inward, and so do we.
There’s something deeply grounding about these walks. They slow me down. They remind me to pay attention—to the colours fading, to the smell of earth after rain, to the quiet company of a dog who doesn’t need words. Out here, in the stillness of autumn, life feels simpler and more complete somehow.
By the time we reach the gate, the day has properly begun, and the ordinary world awaits—coffee, work, noise. But for a while, in the hush of the woods, it’s just me, Carys, and the turning of the season. And that, I think, is enough.