We have, at the top of the valley below our moorland hill, a waterfall. A local but hidden secret.
Moss of course thought this was an excellent adventure and could not wait to run on ahead. She was most put out when we had to put her on a lead when we discovered the sheep had come off the hills to shelter in the narrow valley.
In places the ice sheets were broken showing the stream running beneath - the burble of the water was joyous and was the only sound, other than our feet crunching through ice and snow, were our voices as quietly we explored.
We did not hang around for long - the bitter wind was sharp and cut right through our coats.
At home, in front of the fire, fingers wrapped around mugs of tea we chatted about the bitterly cold and brittle beauty of today's walk.