A Dull Woman's Van Life

12 January 2026

January has begun slowly. I have been indulging in a little wintering, savouring the calm and peace of dark days and long nights. My walks have been shorter and unhurried, the mornings still wrapped in darkness and filled with the sounds of the night — the sharp bark of a fox, the soft call of an owl.

On Monday, we passed a small herd of roe deer, standing motionless in the shadows, waiting in silence for us to move on.

The first snow of the year has already come and gone: a few days of bitter cold and the low squeak of boots breaking fresh powder, before it hardens and turns to crunch beneath your feet.

Evenings brought their own quiet magic, watching flakes drift down in the half-light, settling softly before dawn erased them. The arrival of Storm Goretti shattered that stillness, bringing wind and rain, but it also offered permission to retreat — back to the fire, to hunker down in warmth, and to watch the world move past the window.

Perhaps this is what January is for. The quiet joy of watching birds gather at the feeder, of snow falling gently beyond the glass. Of hearing the wind howl and rain lash the windows while you cradle a warm mug, turn another page by the fire, and allow yourself to slow. Not rushing forward, but drawing inwards — tending small comforts, honouring rest, and meeting the year gently, when you are ready.