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.