Following our favourite footpaths

Sleeping in the van is like crawling into a cosy cocoon, dark and warm and deep. I seem to fall into the pillow and sink through the mattress and vanish. 

And sleep.

When I awoke on the Sunday Himself was already awake, the kettle on and he'd opened the window covering revealing the tide was in and the River Lune looked like a sinuous silvery snake languidly wandering across the Glasson marshes. The briny water twinkled in the early morning light - the palest of blues flickering on cobalt and teal bands. 

After a breakfast where our eyes filled our souls and our mouths filled our bellies, we stepped out of the van and walked a familiar and favourite walk. Down the lane into the village, around the pub and it's many friendly felines however we only stumbled across one who hurtled across the lane squeaking and yowling at us until we stopped for the demanded tickle. 

On to the marina to find a large herd of vintage motorbikes and their equally vintage pilots. Aged blokes in aged leathers, their faces creased by time and weather, gathered around eating bacon rolls and slurping coffee out of paper takeaway cups. Himself immersed himself in their oily scent and rattled under his breath the name of each bike with an added nod of approval or surprise depending on the vintage or model of the shiny black or green or red or blue two wheeled beast.

I eventually managed to pull him from the captivating metal gaggle, we crossed the road, around the old bowling green, down the steps on to the marshy foreshore away from the increasing numbers of dog walkers, bike riders, talkers and walkers and cyclists along the old railway track. 

Birds and marshes were our company now. Old boats, the scent of decomposing bladderwrack, the trill of sky larks, the rustle of the reeds and slurpy-sclutch of the silty path beneath our boots. 

That path moved upward and returned to the railway track, we crossed the bridge and turned right following a small rough lane with a reputation of drowning during high tide. All the houses along that route either high up at the back of the garden or with flood gates and walls to keep out the waves. Plenty of drift wood and litter confirming how high the water can reach.

A bit of zig zagging through muddy paths, country lanes and a brief moment of busy road before we leave all that behind and wander up the long tree lined drive of a converted mill now noisy and popular wedding venue. One that usually has folk in various stages of drunkenness and dress howling with laughter as they celebrate raucously in the gardens of the venue however this time - utter silence. We were confused - as were a number of other walkers who seemed, like us, a mixture of relief and confusion. It was once we'd returned home we discovered that despite it's apparent popularity that it closed due to bankruptcy.

We sat alongside the canal, watching coots, moorhens and listening to gulls, sky larks, curlews as we drank tea and felt the sun on our faces. 

Eventually we tore ourselves off the bench and walked along a gently rewilded canal, where swans silently glide alongside walkers. The sky and the water were the blue which almost breaks my heart.

The towpath took us back through farmland to the marina. Most of the motorbikes had now gone, we walked through the village back to the van, choosing the quieter backwater paths where, once we returned, the van door was flung open, the kettle put back on and we sat feeling the breeze, listening to the birds and watching the tide retreat.

Sunday - you have been a gift. Thank you.