A Dull Woman's Van Life

20th February, 2026

Monday began with a bang. We’d stayed the extra night in Garstang — a decision that always feels gloriously indulgent on Sunday afternoon and faintly reckless by dawn on Monday. The extended weekend is a gift; Monday morning, however, becomes the sacrificial lamb — rushed, mildly chaotic and entirely unloved.

Pepper and I were home alone on Monday evening, so at lunchtime I wandered up to the farm shop in search of something inspiring for dinner. Mark is not a fan of lamb, which means that in his absence I honour my Welsh roots unapologetically. I was raised on lamb; it feels like culinary heritage.

Lamb leg caught my eye, and I settled on making a lamb tagine — hardly traditional Welsh fare, but I prepared it at lunchtime, and had the whole afternoon to let it work its magic and, pleasingly, there were no casserole-dish disasters this time. The house slowly filled with the scent of warming spices. By evening, the tagine was rich, comforting and deliciously fragrant, served with fluffy couscous and a bright radish and pomegranate salad, with yoghurt dressing. A small Monday night indulgence. Pepper was equally content with her own lamb casserole, though hers quite sensibly omitted the spices.

We both retired early, as Tuesday promised cold clarity and I was determined to reclaim a proper morning walk. The past week has been gentler than usual; an injured back and reluctant legs have slowed our pace and shortened our distance. I have enjoyed the quieter rhythm — wandering the woods at dawn while Merlin chatters away, giving me time to pick out an ever-growing catalogue of birdsong — but I have missed the fells.

As forecast, Tuesday arrived frost-white and cloudless. We woke before six and stepped into the brittle air before seven, climbing the Tor path to greet the sunrise. I love this time of year: setting off in pale dawn light and watching the sun lift itself above the horizon while we are still out walking, gifting us that first clean blaze of daylight before the working day begins. It never fails to steady the spirit.

In a moment of quiet extravagance, I have treated myself to a new camera — a trail camera — now positioned outside the house, pointing up towards the fields and the old mill chimney. I wasn’t expecting much, but have been delighted by the footage. A lone fox appeared on the first night, nosing through the long grass in search of supper.

Our resident deer have triggered it too, clearing the fence from the lane into the fields with enviable ease — likely returning from apple-foraging beneath my bird table.

There have been other visitors: neighbourhood cats conducting their silent patrols, and one entirely unexpected cameo from our neighbour Sean, dressed as Rudolph. That particular clip made me howl with laughter — though I shall spare his blushes and keep the evidence to myself.

There is something deeply reassuring about these small winter rituals — a slow-cooked meal on a Monday, frost underfoot before dawn, the quiet thrill of discovering who has passed by the house while we slept. Life feels pared back in February; the trees are still bare, the mornings sharp, the world not yet softened by spring. And yet there is movement everywhere if you look for it — in the fox’s careful tread, in deer clearing fences with ease, in the steady return of light to the mornings.

Perhaps that is what I am most grateful for this week. Not grand adventures or dramatic moments, but the quiet evidence that even in the coldest stretch of the year, life hums on around us. A good walk before work, a warm kitchen, a laughing neighbour in an ill-advised costume — these are the things that stitch the days together.

And for now, that feels more than enough.