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.