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.
At the sight of them, Carys drops into her instinctive crouch—head low, body tense, eyes locked, ears pricked for a command. She waits for the signal to herd, to move them as she would sheep, but they remain unmoved, knowing their wings will always outmatch her feet. It’s a small frustration she never quite accepts—that some things cannot be guided.
The nature reserve greets us with stillness. The pond is glassy and silent, the mossy banks swollen with rainwater, treacherous beneath the surface, daring me to step on it. The resident wildlife is still tucked away, sleeping through the grey morning.
Along the horizon, the dark clouds shift for the briefest of moments, parting just enough to release a sliver of brilliant sunlight before folding again into their dark, brooding curtain.
The path winds onward, deserted and untouched. The world has drawn inward, retreating into its roots and hollows; the world is ours alone this morning. There is a rare intimacy to this emptiness—an unspoken permission to move slowly, to breathe deeply, to exist without interruption.
Dewdrops cling to every surface, tiny mirrored pearls catching what little light there is. The once-vibrant greens of summer have faded to deep browns and muted golds.
Only a single bush, proud and defiant, carries colour—its branches heavy with clusters of red berries, offering a final echo of life amid decay.
We follow the narrow trail between the trees, a familiar path marked by my own hands. The cut branches and cleared spaces speak quietly of those earlier days when I tended these trails, keeping them open and alive. There’s a satisfaction in such care — a way of giving back to the places that hold my footsteps.
A sudden flutter of motion—a robin, bright and curious, emerges from the brambles. It watches us with a tilted head, then hops closer, bold as if posing for a portrait. I reach for my camera, but it vanishes back into the thicket before the shutter can click. Some moments are meant only to be kept in memory.
By the time we turn for home, the weight of the morning softens. Carys trots ahead, her legs and belly stained with mud, her fur dripping with the remnants of the walk.
There will be a warm towel waiting, and the comfort of routine—but for now, the quiet satisfaction of a grey morning well spent lingers with me.