There’s a crisp frost on the grass this morning. It reminds me of brilliant white sheets on a line, rigid as a board, caught in silent protest at being left out overnight.
Up on the hill, there is a mist in the valley through the trees as the sun begins its ascent into a winter sky. The beech nuts crunch, the cattle exhale steam through their noses and the dogs pick up the scent of a squirrel.
It’s glorious up here, just glorious, and it’s the best-ever tonic for anger, frustration and depression, as long as you can wipe your mind clear of such pointless feelings and soak up the beauty around you instead.
Cattle mooch beneath the hillforts, in a perfectly-layered Dorset landscape.
And the sky has just been given a watercolour wash of cobalt blue.
There’s a pink glow all around and the individual blades of grass are upright with frost, knitting a crib blanket for the field as the earth lies beneath it, curled up and sucking its thumb.
It’s like walking through a Christmas card.
Back in the village, I inspect my neighbour’s Advent window in the cold light of day to see how she’s done it. There is a standard to keep up here, and I don’t want to be be the one who lets the side down.
With two dogs tugging on my warm woollen mittens anxious for their daily dental sticks, I turn the corner for home.
That’s about it.
Love, Maddie x
