Helmshore: Teasels, Twilight and the Turning Year

At the Edge of the Year

At dusk the water holds the sky,
Gold thinning into grey,
Cormorants stitch the evening air
Before the light gives way.

Teasels stand where stories linger,
Old words caught in their spines,
While winter waits, and quietly
The year begins to turn.

It has been a busy weekend, filled with the final preparations for Christmas Day. We’re six for dinner this year, and the house needed a proper, no-corners-left-untouched clean. Before all that, though, there was time for walking.

On Saturday afternoon, Pepper and I headed up towards Holden Reservoir as dusk settled in. A heron was preening in the trees above the lodge as we passed, pale and statuesque against the darkening sky.

In the fields, I spotted teasels — a plant I’ve loved since childhood. They always take me straight back to Alison Uttley’s Little Grey Rabbit stories, where Rabbit brushed Squirrel’s tail with them. Some associations never fade.

The sun was slipping behind the valley, and cormorants were beginning to arrive to roost on the water.

We paused at my favourite bench to watch them, sharing the moment with a family of ducks drifting quietly across the reservoir as the light ebbed away.

We wandered home for lasagne and an early night, bracing ourselves for the big clean on Sunday.

Sunday dawned damp and cool. We set off early, taking the longer route around the back of Holden Wood Reservoir. A pair of roe deer watched us sleepily from a field, and two cormorants occupied the heron’s usual roost above the lodge.

We passed the road up to one of the farmhouses — I still love the old sign on the gate — before following the sandstone path to the far edge of the reservoir.

Here we stopped while Pepper enthusiastically explored the tunnel beneath the old quarry tramway. This was once used to bring Haslingden Flag down the hillside, stone that would eventually be shipped to London to pave places including Trafalgar Square — a small local path tied to a much bigger story.

The route back was soggy and squelching. We paused at the bridge where, in autumn, I’d watched kingfishers flit up and down the stream. Today the water was fierce after weeks of rain, the normally calm flow turned foamy and deep. I waited, hopeful for a flash of blue, but none appeared. Pepper sat quietly beside me on the bridge, patient and unbothered, while I scanned the water.

Continuing on, we reached the bench where I’d watched Saturday’s sunset. This morning belonged to sunrise instead — pale gold spreading across the eastern water before deepening into richer hues.

A flock of Canada geese wheeled overhead, honking loudly as they returned from their overnight roosts to forage in the surrounding fields.

Once again, I found myself distracted by teasels, this time capturing them backlit by the rising sun.

We returned home via the old railway along Ogden Brook, arriving back in time for breakfast and the start of work. The Big Clean took all day. By four o’clock my hands were chipped and chapped, but the house was absolutely gleaming. Final decorations were in place, fairy lights twinkling from every available surface.

We ended the weekend with an early birthday dinner at Nino’s Italian restaurant. I turn forty-seven on the 23rd of December — a number that still feels faintly implausible — and it felt like a rather lovely way to close a full, wintry, satisfying few days.

With the Winter Solstice upon us, these days feel poised on a threshold. The light is fragile, easily lost to cloud and rain, yet each morning it returns — a little different, a little softer, hinting at change. There’s comfort in that rhythm, in knowing that even at the year’s darkest point the turning has already begun.

Between winter walks, shared meals, and a house made ready for celebration, this weekend felt like a gentle pause before what comes next. A moment to notice the small things — teasels backlit by sunrise, geese calling overhead, fairy lights glowing at dusk — and to step quietly toward a new year, carrying with us what we want to keep and leaving the rest behind.