Amidst all the media talk of ‘blue monday’ we were confronted with a decidedly wet and windy one. With few glimpses of sunshine at the start of our year, we’ve settled for the dry grey days when they arrive. Quiet days that blanket the sky and draw our focus inwards. This is the kind of weather that inspires a hot drink by the fire rather than an ‘out for hours’ adventure.
But with a dog staring intently up at you over the rim of that hot chocolate, there’s little avoiding the great outdoors for long. Even without the grand vistas of a sunny day, there are plenty of delights to be found. On a drab grey day, away from the grand hill tops and cliff edges, the forest comes into it’s own.
We amble through the mud and low hanging cloud, a quiet pace to suit this still and misty afternoon. The bold straight lines of the tree trunks sit stark against the monotone sky as we take one of our favourite paths, its ‘foxglove alley’ nickname giving hint to the fine display promised later in the year.
We crouch down low to savour the beauty of life on a tiny scale. On a fallen log, a velvet draping of delicate moss, poked through by strange black fungus fingers. Ever-present ivy nips at its edges and abandoned acorn cups slowly fill with drips from the canopy above.
The woodland seems to welcome our quiet grey day pace, so different from our usual morning gallop. Today there is no strava keeping time, no hollering or leaping.
We sit on some leaf mould, backs against a pine, looking up at the fine feathered needles, with barely a breath in the branches. As we settle, so do the birds, deciding we’re less of a monstrous noise today than other days. They emerge from the safe haven of the holly bushes to flash their beautiful bright yellows and reds. We prop each other up and sit in silence for just another moment.
This is what grey days are for. Simply sitting and being amongst the calm quiet stillness. This is how I like to spend Mondays, whether blue or grey.