A Dull Woman's Van Life

It’s been a strange few weeks. I haven’t been walking as much as usual — mornings have felt heavier, and the lure of the hills easier to ignore. My walks have been shorter, slower, closer to home.

On Thursday, though, I managed to pull myself up and out early, back onto Musbury despite not really feeling like going. Oh, how I’ve missed it. The mist curling over the hills, the scent of damp earth rising from the grass, the satisfying squelch of the paths beneath my boots. The rain had eased at last, but its mark was everywhere — brooks and streams swollen and restless, the usually quiet springs chattering with new life.

Across the valley, the “other Tor” in Cowpe was barely visible, its shape fading into a soft white shroud. The wind farm, too, was hidden beneath the low cloud, save for the occasional gleam of a turbine blade catching the sun.

My favourite tree, though, has finally lost her crown. Just last week she was shimmering with leaves of red and gold; now she stands bare and regal, her dark boughs stark against the pale November sky. There’s a quiet dignity in her stillness — a reminder that letting go can be beautiful too.

A movement caught my eye — a sparrowhawk wheeling against the pale blue sky, harried by a band of crows. I watched, spellbound, as it twisted and climbed, sunlight catching its chest while the crows turned dark against the light.

Further along, a small group of deer moved quietly through the damp bracken, their coats blending perfectly with the rusty gold of late autumn. They lifted their heads briefly as I passed, ears flicking, then melted back into the folds of the hill as if they’d never been there at all.

The mild autumn has left nature a little confused. Despite it being mid-November, there are still traces of summer lingering in the valley — a few buttercups bravely bucking the trend and shining gold against the damp grass. Their bright faces looked almost out of place beneath the grey sky, small but defiant reminders that the seasons never turn quite as neatly as we expect.

Above the old chimney, a peregrine was locked in battle with a mob of crows — a furious dispute over the right to roost. They wheeled and dived against the pale sky, one against many, feathers glinting in the light. The sound carried faintly across the moor: sharp cries, the rush of wings, the wild theatre of it all. I stood watching far longer than I meant to, caught up in the quiet drama of the morning.

But the calm didn’t last. By Friday, Storm Claudia had swept in with full force, the valley alive with the sound of wind and water. Gusts howled around the hills, bending the trees and rattling at the windows with a kind of restless energy. The brooks that had burbled gently days before now roared, swollen and fierce, tearing through the hollows.

The deer had vanished into the safety of the woods, and even the birds had retreated from sight — no song, no movement, just the whistle of the gale through the branches. The camera stayed packed away; there are days when nature simply asks to be watched from behind the glass, cup of tea in hand, and that was one of them.

By Saturday morning, the worst of the storm had passed, leaving the valley washed clean and glistening. Pepper and I ventured out again, choosing to stay low and wander the paths around Holden Reservoir. The air was sharp and fresh, the water dark and rippling under the still-busy clouds.

True to form, Pepper managed to find trouble — or rather, a poor unsuspecting critter hiding in the undergrowth. While I was mid-conversation with a friend, she set about excavating it with great enthusiasm, mud flying in all directions. By the time I noticed, she was halfway to Australia. I hauled her out, tail wagging and face absolutely filthy, and she looked up at me with that unmistakable “worth it” expression. (No critters were harmed in the process — though a fair amount of mud was redistributed.)

It wasn’t the week I’d planned, but maybe it was the one I needed. Getting back up onto the hills reminded me that even when the motivation is missing, nature has a way of restoring what’s been dulled by routine. The storms come and go — in the weather, and in life — but there’s always calm somewhere behind them, waiting for you to step back into it.

Sometimes it’s enough just to pull on your boots, breathe in the cold air, and notice what’s still moving: the crows riding the wind, the deer melting into the bracken, or Pepper’s muddy grin after a morning well spent. These small, ordinary moments carry their own quiet kind of healing — the reminder that even after the wildest days, you can always find your way back.

This is an image I had taken a few weeks ago when I climbed Musbury Tor at Sunset and it seems like a perfect image to end the week. At the top, I met a couple standing together, silhouetted against the fading light. The scene was so perfect that I asked if I could take their picture — a moment of shared stillness between strangers, held in the glow of the setting sun. Later, I sent the photo to them, a small connection made on the hill.