Helmshore: Winter, watched from the Window

Sunday, January 18th

I can’t quite believe that we’re already more than halfway through January. Almost imperceptibly, we seem to have passed the lump: mornings are quietly growing lighter a little earlier, and the evenings hold on to the day just that bit longer. I’ve kept to my intended wintering through the early weeks of January, moving slowly and softly through the days, but this weekend I felt a stirring — a sense of waking. A quiet energy, gently returning.

On Saturday, Pepper and I wandered up to Musbury Heights via the quarry, practising running together with her canicross kit. For the most part, the trot was a success — until we startled a herd of deer. At that point, all of Pepper’s training vanished entirely and she careered down the steep path, with me very much attached. Following the attempted murder, we sensibly abandoned the run, ending instead at Musbury Brook before taking a slower, more sedate stroll down the valley.

The afternoon and evening were spent exactly as they should be: in front of the fire, sustained by a truly fabulous samosa pie, lovingly prepared by Mark.

Sunday began damply, with the promise of heavy rain later in the morning, so we set out early. I’ve been looking for a new morning walk. I love the Musbury route, but after four years of taking the same path most mornings — often on autopilot — I’ve been craving something different. New terrain, different wildlife, a small shake-up to routine.

This morning we climbed the lower slopes of the Tor, before taking the path across the southern face towards Great House Farm and picking up part of the Rossendale Way. Turning right before Alden Ratchers, we followed the descent to Alden Brook, wandering back along its banks towards Sunnybank before returning home via Holcombe Road. It will work well as a morning walk, though we’ll need to step up the pace if we’re to fit it into an hour.

The afternoon found me in the kitchen. I’d spotted some beautiful beef short ribs in the farm shop and had my heart set on a beef ragù. They’d been soaked overnight in red wine and herbs, then seared in a hot pan. While they rested, I slow-cooked a soffritto for a good thirty minutes, before adding the red wine and chopped tomatoes. The ribs were returned to the pan and left to gently simmer for five hours, finally served with homemade tagliatelle and a generous glass of Gavi. You can find my recipe here.

The perfect end to a lazy Sunday — one that felt like the quiet turning of a page, and a gentle step towards the light returning.

And yet, for all that stirring to venture further, there remains a deep contentment in simply watching winter from the window. The hours slow here. Birds move constantly through the garden, flitting between feeders and hedges with a quiet urgency, their small lives animated against the grey. When the weather turns harsh, the deer are driven closer to the house, appearing softly at the edges of the day, tentative and watchful, as if sharing in the need for shelter.

I find myself spending long stretches by the glass, mug warming my hands, simply observing. There is something profoundly comforting in this closeness to the wild — the sense of being part of it, yet held safely within the warmth of home. It feels like a final, gentle gift of winter: permission to rest, to notice, and to be still, even as the days begin their slow return.