Today is Christmas Day.
We set out at eight o’clock, the house still warm with the glow of morning celebrations. My youngest son has already torn through a small mountain of wrapping paper, his excitement filling the room with laughter and wonder. Carys, too, has shared in the ritual—her own gifts carefully unwrapped, each toy greeted with enthusiasm and pride. There is a sense of completion to the morning already, as though the day has been generously opened before it has truly begun.
Outside, the world is calm, dry, and cold. A crisp stillness hangs in the air. The streets are empty—no passing cars, no voices, no children racing along pavements with new wheels beneath them. It feels strange, almost unsettling, as though the town itself is holding its breath. Christmas has pressed pause on the world.
I can’t help but think of my own childhood Christmas mornings. Streets once echoed with shouts of excitement, the whirr of bicycle wheels, the clatter of toy cars skimming across tarmac. Outdoor play was woven naturally into the fabric of the day. Now, the world has changed. Childhood joy still exists—just differently shaped, with happy faces glowing softly behind screens. I know these children are no less happy than we were, and yet for me, the silence today feels heavy. The empty streets carry a quiet sense of loss, an absence of sound that lingers longer than expected.
We follow the farm lane toward Daisy Nook, boots crunching lightly on the cold ground. My attention is caught by a sudden flicker of movement beside the stream—a flash of bright yellow against the muted browns of winter. A grey wagtail perches on a branch, tail bobbing gently, watching us with quiet curiosity. Its bright chest feels like a small gift, a reminder that the colours of nature persist even in the subdued palette of winter.
As we enter Daisy Nook, we meet another couple walking their dog, a terrier with a familiar look. It reminds me instantly of Nipper, the dog from the old HMV posters. They smile and ask, “Is this Carys?”—a question that warms me more than it should. We exchange a few words, wish each other a Merry Christmas, then continue on, each returning to our own quiet rituals. These brief human connections feel especially meaningful today—gentle acknowledgements that we share this place, this moment.
Ahead, a heron stands motionless in the shallow water, its reflection barely disturbed. It is statuesque, patient, entirely absorbed in the world beneath the surface. Watching it, I’m reminded that waiting is a form of devotion.
The tall trees surrounding us begin to rustle loudly as the wind gathers above, yet down here the air remains calm. It’s as though the woodland itself is shielding us, offering shelter from the cold bite beyond its edges. We wander deeper, following the river’s slow curve. Fallen trees dominate the landscape now—one so immense it has redirected the flow of water entirely. Nature is reshaping itself without urgency or apology.
At every bend in the river, Carys rushes ahead, pausing at the water’s edge, eyes fixed on mine. She waits for my nod—the unspoken permission to leap. But today, the water is bitterly cold, and with reluctance, I deny her. She accepts this quietly, though I can feel her disappointment echo my own.
We pick up a woodland trail that only days ago was almost impassable, churned into deep mud by relentless rain. Now, after a short spell of dryness, the ground has firmed beneath our feet. Even so, the trail bears scars—fallen trees, yawning root holes, steep embankments where the trees once stood and deep channels carved into the trail by the relentless rush of water. The land wears its history openly, unafraid to show what it has endured.
At the end of the woodland, a pair of mallard ducks forage frantically along the water’s edge. At this time of year, they often depend on the generosity of visitors—bread, seed, grain. But today, the paths are quiet. Families gather indoors, tending to their own traditions. And so the ducks return to the old ways, searching through weeds and water as nature intended.
Cold now, but deeply refreshed, we turn toward home. Soon we will step back into warmth—family visits, shared meals, laughter, games, and the comfortable excess of Christmas indulgence. Later, perhaps, a glass or two of whisky will mark the day’s gentle close.
But for now, I carry with me the stillness of this walk. A reminder that while the world celebrates indoors, the wild remains open—patient, generous, and quietly waiting for those willing to step outside and listen.