Season of memories and 'mist-fullness'

I dream, everyone does, however I don't always fully recall what it was that kept me busy 'doing stuff' in my head once I have woken.

But recently I have remembered them. Vividly. I am walking.

With Moss.

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Boxing Day Walk - what better way to celebrate 'Merryneum' - that quiet part of the week between the madness.  Himself and I planned to take a couple of flasks, some festive shortbread and do the extended dog loop. One we'd not trod for over a year or so. As we set off, I mentioned to Himself that this walk was for Moss and I still miss her. 

As we followed the lane up and out of the valley we looked back over the hills towards the neighbouring town, it was gently vanishing into a foggy duvet - our larger hills invisible and the village softening into a light silvery grey. 

Turning off the lane onto a muddy track we walked above the valley, following the contours lined by hedges or stone walls. Belties methodically tore at the grass, if you listened carefully you would hear the grass being pulled, severing from the roots. A small flock of starlings flew over head, the woosh of their wings cutting through the air, I stared upward for a moment, making a mental wish to see the murmurations. Our boots made a sticky sclutchy sound in the mud as we walked on - not muddy enough to hamper us but sufficiently quaggy to make walking 'interesting'. I noticed that the relatively new fabricated stone circle was finally settling in and the swirling fog gave it a mysterious air.

We soon arrived at row of mill cottages festooned in fairy lights or proudly sharing their festive trees in front room windows. We were the only ones out, the cottages cradling their occupants, keeping them warm. It felt good to be out. Our feet took us back down into the valley, into the nature reserve that Moss adored. I walked the dog paths that she loved. Himself patiently accompanied me to all her stops along the river where we would throw sticks or stones into the water for her to dash in, splashing and swimming to her heart's content.  The stony track dwindled to a newly repaired gravel path then down to a narrow muddy line winding through first the meadow then up above the river in the tree line. It dropped back down past the now rewilded mill pond, filled with bullrushes and mallards.

The small play park in the nature reserve was full of hyperactive children and jaded parents, we walked by grateful that we could. The path now was a narrow puddle filled groove, trapped between a moss and lichen covered wall and a rather bossicky rough hedge. I slipped through the dog gaps and again followed the dog paths, remembering, smiling, missing.

At the furthest point, where we were to turn back and walk home on a tarred road back to the village, we hesitated. Not ready to return. Swinging round we took another path. This led us down to the river where we slipped and slid along chocolate coloured mud. The young trees planted a decade or so ago were maturing and looked comfortable alongside the original woodland.

We stopped at a treacle coloured pool and gravelly riverine beach for tea and shortbread.

A few other walkers, with dogs or children or both, laughed or talked on the higher path, while we remained nearer the river, where it was quiet apart from the burbling water. Then, brushing a few crumbs off our coats, we continued. The mist - which the trees had kept off us, descended making the views short and walls ephemeral. Sounds softened and bird song ceased, all we heard was the crunch or slush of our boots on the path.

We passed through a hamlet, some houses dazzlingly encrusted with lights, others dark and silent. Our route turned left, back up out of the valley - heading home. Another new path, this one was obviously designed and built by and for young long legged males in their prime. I chose the dog path, a slim track avoiding the gargantuan steps. Mist swirling around us leaving droplets on eyelashes and engulfing views. The fields were Oh.So.Boggy. Ankle deep, thick dark sludge. Walking was tricky to say the least.  Good thing our feet knew their way home, there were no discernible landmarks and the pathway - what pathway? 

We finally arrived above the valley we live in. The sky - a soft wasteful grey all day was now dark, the mist had filled every space, covering cobwebs on the stone walls and making street lights glow eerily.

At home, sitting with the fire, the cat and a mug of tea, drying off and warming up - I quietly thought that - that would have been a good Moss walk and she would have loved it. It made me smile.

Turning of the circle

Winter Solstice - it is not a single moment, we don't see a change in the light for several days however, the lightness can be felt in the head and the heart - spring is on her way.

Today Himself and I managed to steal a few hours away from the world and take ourselves off for a walk to mark Winter Solstice and it was wonderful. We set off in Zeb, our van -  a big burly bloke of a vehicle to find a small waterfall up in the Dales.

The weather was wild, with winds and rain making driving and walking 'interesting'. Views slipped in and out of focus as curtains of rapidly moving mist and rain flew by. Himself and I followed a stony path alongside Cotter Beck in Wensleydale towards the falls. All the rain had filled the beck to almost bursting and the water boiled and roared in a coffee coloured torrent. 

Long before we reached the falls, we could hear it. A chest thumping roar of water crashing down the limestone - we were not disappointed when we saw it.

We were the only ones there and the wildness, the wind, the crash of the water and the spray in the air felt so primal - we caught ourselves grinning at the rawness and beauty of it all.

We walked up along the falls to the top and felt the power of the water as it crashed through the rock gulley - the spray drenched our legs and wet our faces. And it felt good.

We returned the same way as we arrived, only this time we noticed different beauty. The fence posts were host for tiny microcosms of lichen, moss and fungi. The gate was a patchwork of rust and lichens and just shone out in the gloom.

What a wonderful way to celebrate Winter Solstice - May the turning of the wheel bring you light and love, kindness and clarity - Blessing be xx

When all else fails - light a candle

It is the sort of day when the damp cold air clings to your face, wrapping itself around your clothing and following you in when you come in from a walk.

As I type this, I am making a fruit cake - full of nuts and sultanas, dates, dried plums and apple. Treacle sits heavily in the centre waiting to soften, melting with the butter and the kitchen is filled with the woody scents of cinnamon, ginger and clove.

We've just returned from the final card delivery round - an annual well worn tradition, started when the boys were very small and the route was designed so that they could have a break half way round for a rest. Then their legs grew, as did their stamina - the round would be completed in one go. The last couple of years it has just been Himself and me and we do the quick step, returning for a mug of tea.  Today we did the 'between the showers' dash and flew round the village dropping off cards as speedily as we could before we were rained on......and we were rained on. There were a few villagers out and about at the same time and we all did the very English thing of raising eyebrows muttering 'raining again' greeting.

Candles have been lit and tea is being brewed, the kitchen smells heavenly with the fragrance of a cooking fruit cake - all comforting and cosy acts as an active antidote to the dreich out side.  Hope you can find that little glimmer to make you smile today.

Thank you for all your wonderful and welcoming back comments on my last post xxxx

Finding my feet

We parked up, in a lumpy bumpy off a lane sort of space. One I'd used some years ago when I'd worked in the area.  A space off a lane giving me a space in my day and space in my head.

Lacing up boots and shouldering bags, we stepped out of the van into a landscape we love. Today it had low sulky skies with drifting bad tempered clouds in various shades of grey. In the far distance both up the valley and back towards where we'd driven from there was a gentle glimmer of sunlight.

Himself opened a lichen green wooden gate into a damp field and as he turned to close it a cyclist braked to a muddy halt and we let him through too, a muttered thank you and he was off in a splatter and squish of mud down towards the valley bottom. 

A solitary ewe watched as we walked down towards her, we expected her to wander off as we approached, but she was too blasé - walkers were ten a penny and she was not about to be put off her rather good vantage point.

It felt good. It felt good to be out on the hills, feeling the chill of the air on exposed skin and seeing winter softened long distance views. I have missed this.

The path meandered alongside the hills, we did not want to drop too far down only to have to trudge back up. Every step had a memory for me - the grassy mound where I'd made a 'snow mama' that first extremely snowy winter I'd worked here. The field with the donkeys who wore spotty purple and pink coats. The gate I would lean over and watch the rather elegantly nosed Blue Faced Leicester rams.  Seems a life time ago.

The path then found the back route into the small rural town and we trundled along narrow streets. I always felt that this part of the town had managed to stay in the past, almost too cramped for cars except the smallest varieties, a pot or two directly outside the front door which opened directly on to the lane. Privies, coal stores and outhouses either derelict or converted haphazardly as sheds.

We navigated our way along the tumbling lanes and cute cottages and out the other side stopping at a converted pound - a place used historically to hold wandering livestock - now a grassy picnic area with a couple of benches and a cracking view. Sitting carefully to avoid puddles of rain water on the bench we drank tea and reminisced about the many times and years we had brought first tiny boys, then toddlers, giddy youngsters and finally young teenagers to this spot - a good point to have a break before the next part of the walk.

Clouds swirled purposely across the heavy skies as we set off again up a stony track. As we climbed higher on to the hills the mist began to descend, drifting across the tops in a silvery curtain. Himself was in his element - his love for the weather had him grinning. Me not so much - I miss blue skies, I miss the sun - my head and my heart need light and I feel weighed down by the gloom. 

The path continued in a grassy steady upward direction, until we found a somewhat sheltered spot to finish our teas and nibble on snacks. I pulled my hood up and retreated as much as I could in my coat as the mist swirled thickly around us. We did not linger long. 

I always find the silence brought on my mist or fog rather eery - bird song thins away to nothing and all you can hear is the trudging of boots on the saturated path. The mist thickened so that we could only see just a few metres ahead and landmarks faintly drifted into view and slipped away almost as quickly. It is good we know our route, trusting the paths and our feet to lead us back to the van.

We finally reached the track that would return us to that a lumpy bumpy off a lane sort of space where we could put on the kettle, shrug off our damp coats and boots and wrap cold fingers around steaming mugs of tea before we head for home.

Himself was basking in a post walk glow, I have to be honest and admit that despite my misgiving and my need for sun and blue skies, I too enjoyed that walk although it is always retrospectively that I do.

I think writing helps reinforce that enjoyment.