As the sun rose on our final week in this miraculous place, I realise how lucky we’ve been. The silence, the space, the snow.
It’s just before 10am. The sun has not yet brushed the eastern horizon, yet the sky fills with a gentle glow, dawn’s rosy fingers silently infiltrating the navy blue of the night sky, reluctantly dissolving.
Yellow to blood orange to pink, disappearing into stubborn inky wash yet to be reminded day has broken and it's time for stars to sleep.
All distinctions in the landscape muted under a 20cm blanket of fresh snow, the surface undulates in ridges of smothered vegetation, life and colour silenced under winter’s icy mantle. Leafless twigs poke sporadically above the surface, stubbly reminders of the world beneath.
The valley has not woken entirely from the darkness of slumber, its untainted white coat glowing brighter with every passing minute, the early morning pink beginning to find its reflection in the snow.
This place in the middle of nowhere, in the sticks. It has been an island of calm, a sanctuary, a place of wintery escape. As we return to the city, it will remain in our minds, glowing pink in the morning sun, the air thin with cold, the silence and the still unmoved and unmoving.
There are hikes and adventures and photographs from the last month that I have yet to work through. No doubt as the darkness sets in and I no longer have an icy track through a forest to wander, they will begin to appear in dribs and drabs. Watch this space.
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