The hawthorn tree

Dear blog,

day 1 in the year of 2018....

...let me tell you of a story of a walk to a tree on new year's eve.  

However, before I begin, the sharp eyed of you have already noticed I have added our January Scavenger photo-hunt list. This year the format is slightly different yet still the same - here, let me explain. (excuse me while I take a slurp of tea - thank you dear Himself, just what I needed)

This year's hunt has less prompts, giving you more time to find your photos. They can be freshly snapped images or some scavenged from your archives. Each photo can be a standalone story inspired by that image or the full list could be woven into one story - the choice is yours. The only stipulation is you have fun and don't feel obliged or pressured to join in.

Pictures inspired by words, words inspired by a picture - over to you!

My internet sobriquet is 'hawthorn' which is derived from my Celtic birth sign. The hawthorn tree itself has many mythical attachments to it, so, to me, it is a precious tree.

One of our favourite walks is up to and through Grass Wood, near the villages of Conistone and Grassington. 

Up through the moorland fields where the winding track goes, so did we. High above the valley bottom, leaving below the small and sleepy village.

The track took us along the edge of limestone cliffs, high above a dry valley, into sparsely treed moorland. Our destination? 'My' tree, a magical twisted hawthorn that we have visited for over ten years.

We found her, I - as I do every time - stood next to the twisted trunk and laid my hand on the rough bark.  With your back to the tree, the panoramic view over the limestone and moorland is heart breakingly wild and beautiful.  We sat near and had our lunch. After we'd eaten our path took us through a more dense part of the woods. A short while later, we emerged on the other side.

We walked away from the woods, down into green farmland fields. Stone walled, each with their own little barn. Then crossed the valley and turned up back on to the moors. The winter green grass turned to dull brown and sparse. The pasture opened out and appeared bare and exposed.... and it was. The breeze cutting and icy and on the horizon heavy clouds looking sleety and cold.

At the crest of the rounded hill, an abandoned farm house came in to view. We were drawn to explore and although the ground floor filled with pungently smelling sheep dung we stepped inside. The boys went upstairs as Himself and I stepped back out, donned more clothing, made mugs of tea and kept an eye on the weather.

As we drained the last drops of rapidly chilling tea, the sleet and rain hit us. Wrapped up as best we could we dropped off the hills as quickly as the mud and puddles would let us! Moss thought this was the greatest fun ever as she lolloped from bog to bog getting more and more muddy - but that is how she sees every walk.... a mud-n-puddle-fest.

Then as we came off the high pastures down to the village, I happened to look back, the moon was appearing through the clouds - perfect. Just perfect :)

Once home, warmed and dried with the fire crackling away merrily, I lit candles and started our new 'Jolabokaflod' tradition - handing out books for every one to read - which we did! It was a lovely evening, reading, listening to music, nibbling the last of the naughty festive food....

although not all of us did any reading ..... 

*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*

  *H*A*P*P*Y* *N*E*W* *Y*E*A*R*!*

 Welcome, 2018, may she be kind and gentle and loving x