Helmshore: In The Dark before Dawn

I always find this last week before the Christmas holidays hard. Perhaps it’s the lack of light: those early mornings when Pepper and I start — and end — our walk in what feels like total darkness, the sun barely a whisper above the horizon before we’re back home again. The landscape is hidden from view, the wildlife reduced to a rustle somewhere out in the gloom.

Afternoon wanders are far more forgiving. On Tuesday the day was clear and bright, and I managed to catch some of the season’s brilliance: a pair of Mallards gliding across the Museum lodge, their blue and green feathers mirrored in the water; long-tailed tits and blackbirds busy among the berries; and a multitude of squirrels in the trees, each one driving Pepper into fresh outrage.

A tabby cat watched us pass, entirely unbothered by Pepper’s growls, perched on a wall and staring back with slitted, unimpressed eyes.

Wednesday began with promise. We set off a little later than usual and the sunrise lit the horizon in a soft red glow.

Fifteen minutes later, the heavens opened. Rain fell with biblical enthusiasm, washing away the colours and throwing us straight back into darkness. A strong wind and icy temperatures finished the job, turning the walk into a slog. Pepper was promptly wrapped in her (hated) “dressing gown” on our return, though after an initial sulk and a retreat to bed, she slept in it until lunchtime and refused to let me take it off — so perhaps it’s not quite as despised as she makes out.

The afternoon brought no improvement. Down by the riverside a flock of female pheasants picked through the leaves, and a cormorant preened above the water as if posing for an oil painting.

Back home, we welcomed a new winter visitor to the garden — a beautiful reed bunting helping itself to the plentiful seed.

To lift the mood, I turned to my Full of Beans cookbook and tried a new recipe: king prawn saganaki.

We devoured it while the rain hurled icy handfuls at the windows and Pepper snored contentedly in her bed, blissfully unaware of the tempest outside.

As the week draws to a close, I’m reminded that these murky December days are only temporary. We’re inching toward the Solstice now — that quiet hinge in the year when the longest night gives way to the slow return of light. It’s a subtle shift, almost imperceptible at first, but comforting all the same. Soon the mornings will stop stealing so much of the day, the sun will linger a little longer on the hills, and walks that begin in darkness will start to brighten at the edges.

For now, though, there’s a certain grace in the waiting: in the warmth of home after a stormy walk, in the small surprises of winter wildlife, in Pepper snoring through the tempest. These dark weeks remind me to look for glimmers wherever they appear — knowing that the turning of the year is already underway, and brighter days are quietly on their way.