We stride out, dog with her shoulders set as she pulls on her lead, Youngest - all legs and arms and flapping jacket matches her pace. I, slower and shorter paced, quicken my step to keep up.
We cross our road, following a quiet lane which curves between a high wall and a row of cottages, over a culvert and up a flight of narrow steps flanked by thick lush grass burgeoning with bobbing headed daffodils. The sound of school play time fluctuates about us as children's voices are carried by the wind and then flung over the village. Our pace, still quick as we continue upwards, is better matched as I loosen, taking longer strides while Moss relaxes into her walk. Youngest and I talk. On this and on that - on something and nothing. We are able to do that, he and I. Both our fringes fly around our eyes and our ears start to feel cold despite the sun.
At the end of the little lane, we turn right, still upward. We hop over puddles and pot holes, mindlessly chatting. Finally we reach the house I have to drop off my parcel - job done.
Neither of us want the walk to end.
So I point out a little used path, a small and well tended one quietly following the garden perimeters. Primula, cowslips, ribes and daffodils line one side and fresh lime green tree leaflets tickle our faces from the other.
So I point out a little used path, a small and well tended one quietly following the garden perimeters. Primula, cowslips, ribes and daffodils line one side and fresh lime green tree leaflets tickle our faces from the other.
The narrow path widens to a grassy track, chickens pootle around and are startled by our arrival, quickly ducking under a gate where they turn and watch us walk by. At this point, although not the highest spot in the village, there is a broad valley view of the village and the buildings. Each group of houses indicating the era of their construction. Higgledy cottages with heavily sagging slate rooves, boxy 1970's social now private housing, modern generic architecture - the type that confirms to a 'look' yet have no character. We walk past larger homes up here, older monied ones financed by mills from years gone by. Our track slips into another more used and rocky one and turns us back down the valley. Snaking around chicken pens and rusting vehicles. Moss runs and puddle-jumps, chasing the ball and returning for another throw - her energy boundless.
The further down the valley, the more sedate the track becomes, the more polite and less rutted more road-like, now tarred, we follow it until we turn into large undulating field. The gate tucked between two large trees lets us enter and once again we feel more free. Youngest throws the ball back and forth for the dog as she hurtles through the bright green grass. Often there is stock in this space, but not today - better for us. Diagonally across we go, accompanied by a zig zagging Moss.
Our field ends and we resume a lead walk for a short distance, down the road, across the main street, follow a winding lane to mills and businesses, back up the other side of the valley. Back on to fields, this time sharply steep. Chatting slows down to accommodate greater breaths but we soon resume our conversation. I turn and view the valley from the other side, tracing our route with my eyes, noticing we were back in the breeze and it is quite cutting. We leave the steep field and join our favourite 'Ol' Joe's Lane'. A short track, narrow in places with tumbling stone walls and amazing views over 'our' hill looming behind the village.
The ball is lobbed again back and forth, Moss eagerly chases, her teeth snapping as misses or catches, leaping up high or twisting round on a quick paw - she is fast and keen. We soon reach the end, procrastinating by observing yet more hens, this time quietly preening and steadfastly ignoring - they are used to walkers stopping to gawk.
Lead back on, we step on to the road back down into the village. Past the house that kindly supplies water for thirsty dogs, past the strange half developed half demolished building, down, down, past the row of cottages with cute little gardens out front, past sleeping lambs, down down, past the village shop and cafe, past the 'Old Jam Pots', past the War Memorial. Over the road, past the community hall and old library, past the pub and nail bar. For a village we have a lot of small businesses quietly keeping the heart beating.
Then we are home, through the back door, kettle on - time for a mug of tea.
The further down the valley, the more sedate the track becomes, the more polite and less rutted more road-like, now tarred, we follow it until we turn into large undulating field. The gate tucked between two large trees lets us enter and once again we feel more free. Youngest throws the ball back and forth for the dog as she hurtles through the bright green grass. Often there is stock in this space, but not today - better for us. Diagonally across we go, accompanied by a zig zagging Moss.
The ball is lobbed again back and forth, Moss eagerly chases, her teeth snapping as misses or catches, leaping up high or twisting round on a quick paw - she is fast and keen. We soon reach the end, procrastinating by observing yet more hens, this time quietly preening and steadfastly ignoring - they are used to walkers stopping to gawk.
Lead back on, we step on to the road back down into the village. Past the house that kindly supplies water for thirsty dogs, past the strange half developed half demolished building, down, down, past the row of cottages with cute little gardens out front, past sleeping lambs, down down, past the village shop and cafe, past the 'Old Jam Pots', past the War Memorial. Over the road, past the community hall and old library, past the pub and nail bar. For a village we have a lot of small businesses quietly keeping the heart beating.
Then we are home, through the back door, kettle on - time for a mug of tea.
