Journal

New Years Walks in Northumberland

Sand crunched underfoot, frozen solid where the tide had left it, a smattering of fresh snow.

Each morning we walked along the beach in front of the cottage, Teasel zigzagging between rockpools glazed with ice, stopping to investigate every piece of driftwood, every knot of bladderwrack stiff with cold. The light was sharp and clean, the kind that makes you squint even on grey days, and the wind came straight off the North Sea with nothing to soften it.

What draws me back to winter beaches is how much becomes visible when everything else strips away. The bones of the coast show through—ancient timber posts bristling with barnacles, worm casts writing cursive across wet sand, lichen bright against dark rock.

Birds work the waterline in an urgent, focused way as the weather turns, eluding my attempt to catch them in the moment before they scattered.

Then back to the cottage as light faded, peeling off frozen layers by the fire, hands wrapped around tea, Teasel asleep on the hearthrug still smelling of salt and seaweed.

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