We set out at six, when the world still belongs to the dark. The farm road stretches ahead—a ribbon of shadow — and the beam of my head torch carves out a circle of light within the darkness. Beyond it, everything dissolves into quiet mystery. No silhouettes of joggers, no familiar figure of the early dog walker this morning—only me and Carys, the rhythm of our steps echoing faintly off the damp road.
The air is thick with the scent of cut grass — sweet, green, alive. The meadow is a patchwork of stubble and scattered blades, glistening with dew. Each step presses the wetness into my boots, streaking them with green as though the earth itself is painting me into its landscape.
There is something deeply peaceful about the absence of others—as if the morning has drawn its curtain early, saving this quiet hour just for us. The horses that usually roam the far pasture are nowhere to be seen, perhaps still dreaming in the dark. Carys trots ahead, her collar light bobbing like a small red star.
In the half-light, I feel time slow—the world suspended between night and dawn, holding its breath. There’s a rare kind of solitude in these early hours: not loneliness, but a soft belonging. The kind that reminds me why I walk—to feel stitched again into the small, patient movements of the world.
When we reach the end of the road, the first hint of pale blue begins to stir in the east. A promise of morning. The darkness softens, and the world—damp, green, and glimmering—begins to wake.