As I make my way up the slope between a watching avenue of old oaks and sycamores there’s a real bite to the air. Persistent rain has forced the ground to swell like a sponge and leak out rivulets that race down newborn gullies and channels.
This morning I had to drag myself out of bed. Even now as I walk under the bare canopy of winter trees a part of me wishes I’d stayed in that warm room, swaddled by darkness, under the heavy blankets, fondly aware of Nicola’s breathing presence next to me.
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