Three things...

a cloud, a ring, a frozen man in a frozen forest.

Hello dear friends,

I hope those of you in the northern hemisphere are staying cosy? I have battled with a glacial wind up here on my hill, slipped with arms and legs unsuccessfully finding any equilibrium at all on deceitful frosty lanes, a losing battle from the outset. Also, even in four layers of clothing, gloves, a hat—I am never comfortable wearing—scarf and thick, scratchy woollen socks—uncomfortable too—during this last week when temperatures have dipped lower than we’ve had in years, no amount of walking or clothes has been sufficient to smooth out goosebumps or defrost fingers, toes and nose!

Ignoring frostbite, there are plentiful pleasures I find to be thankful for; walking on frosted leaves, the crunch beneath my feet—as opposed to squelchy swampy everything last week—is almost melodic, the sky is pure, a deep cerulean blue every day, birds are busy, probably staying warm, singing while they do so, there is hope in their chirruping;

The hill transforms into ice art, clouds shape shift into a masterpiece I’ve seen only once before in my whole life, a hunter throws down his gun. Apparently the cold snap is causing strange effects…

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Iced summer - floral still life on the down slopes…

Dawn is imminent, its presence a glimmer of light on a horizon lit by the first full moon of the year. The wolf moon—failing to look wolfish— is glowing primrose yellow in fairy-light brightness fanning its opalescent beams through tangled branches, skeletal waifs of the woodland I cannot decide the fate of. The mostly young Ash who, knowing nothing of sleep or rest, as adolescents rarely do, sway between ancestral guardians in an arctic breeze.

My breath leaves body warmth in short gasps, shocked into mini cloud puffs, fizzling iced air hanging for a second until the next devours it entirely, one after frozen other. In the shortest of moments, too late to un-numb bones knocking in layered vestments, I brace myself for the inescapable thump, ground, iron-hard, meets bottom, frozen meets frozen, it hurts!

I tell about one—there have been many—such slippery morning dance routine in a reply to a kindred wanderer far more graceful in his meanderings both physical and metaphysical…

Dear David, how I dream of agility.... I have found little of the earths upward seeping warmth these past days, and yet, not a flake of snow has fallen as I wish it would. Not heel bone thumping but all feet bones, then femur, slipping from under me on sheet ice... arms waving a merry dance, what a silly skater I must look. And... no please not, oh the shame, I'm being watched! In his rustiest red, with fluffed up tail, a fox grin in the gloaming, I hear well his chuckles as he twists and trots with enviable balletic grace across ice that has me frozen bottomed, chicken grain scattered, staring up at the stars!

David Knowles replies;

Dear Susie, can I make a request, an impertinent one as we are only recently and distantly acquainted. This little story is so perfectly told. The pace, the letting go and the loss of control both literal and literary. Can we see more of this, from time to time, if it suits you? In the meantime I'll take these few sentences and put them in a bottle - so that when I get that stodgy stuck feeling as I write, I can pull out the cork, take a quick sniff and put myself back on the energy-line. More of this, please. Not instead of, but in addition to, shot through. Ah, its probably there already and I am just a poor reader. Apologies. I'll go back and sift through the library :-)

And, so the days continue… I am blue, cold blue, bruised blue, logging my slips and slides for Davids bottling, immensely gladdened simply by doing so!

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Another morning masterpiece - frosted forest - hidden frozen hunter within.

The hunter I almost tumble onto, hiding on the edge of the forest, motionless—not entirely because that is what is expected of him on this day—is cold, by which I mean frozen rigid. I bid him good morning, foolishly stating the obvious about a chilly start—the sun has yet to creep over the tops of the hills—he moves only his eyes when he replies, glancing at my camera.

“Que faites-vous à errer dans les champs par une matinée aussi glaciale ?”¹

With a smile, I tell him I am photographing the iced hill and trees, adding,

“On a pas souvent l'occasion de voir un vrai paysage d'hiver ici, j'en profite tant que je peux, c'est à couper le souffle, n'est-ce pas ?”²

He stares at the landscape, then at his gun leaning against a tree, his eyes make a quizzical look, he asks if I am cold.

“Mais bien sûr que non,” I reply, “Je me promène, il faut bouger quand il fait froid!”³

Again his eyes move into a shape, though I cannot read their meaning. He is silent a while then surprises me with a response I don’t anticipate.

“Vous savez, je pense que c'est peut-être la dernière fois que je prends mon arme, sauf pour l'accrocher à son lieu de repos. Je vais plutôt acheter un appareil photo, au moins je n'aurai plus jamais froid et je ne m'ennuierai plus !”⁴

He heaves himself up. He is so stiff from immobility I imagine I hear his iced bones snapping as he moves, he walks with me back through the forest. When we reach the lane where his van is parked, he opens the door, lays down his gun and his folding chair, turns to me and offers his hand, which I take.

Just before he drives off, he looks at me one last time, blue lips still trembling with cold but forming, as best he can, a smile of thanks as he says,

“Merci, infiniment merci.”

The morning couldn’t have been more surreal, I cannot help the feeling I’ve saved at least a few wild souls.

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“Tell me the story… about how the sun loved the moon so much that she died every night Just to let him breathe...” ― Hanako Ishii (photo taken 12/01/25)

Oscar Wilde called her⁵ “The moon in her chariot of pearl” in The Nightingale and the Rose, and while her graceful glow follows my every step, I cannot deny her pearlescent presence. I walk with her a while, accept with love her light, the shadow she makes of me.

In sharp, cool contrast to apricot apricity, blue is très à la mode this week, above me the sky has a pigment so clear, so pure, I wonder if somewhere, someone has painted it in woad.

I am surprised and delighted when slicing a loaf of home baked bread taken from the freezer—dated November 2024—to find a ring thought lost baked into the middle.

Mental Note #476 — take off rings before kneading bread dough, actually before all baking.

All week I have been thinking Mary Olivers words,

“it is a serious thing / just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.”

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A rare Lenticular cloud hanging in the dusk… photo taken 15/01/2025

On a day when blue is no longer pure—nor even cerulean blue—I walk with Seth, through the dusky evening along the way where badgers roam, though I know their black and white antics are likely buried in warm tunnels beneath our feet on a day when cold prickles the skin such as this. Around a lazy bend in the lane where the lone holly tree stands now bereft of all christmassy enticements, onwards and downwards toward the chateau. He is explaining extreme functions and their graphic representations⁶ to me but I am staring at a cloud. This is not just any cloud, a most glorious—rare for these parts—Lenticular cloud spirals into the falling night sky. I tell him to shush, as if mere words would frighten such a beauty away.

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Thank you for reading, I send you love from a heart forever in the clouds,

Susie X

Something I have loved (and dreamed of) this week;

Holly Starley

interviewed Rory Mulvany Moore, a thru-hiker in the truest sense of the term!

One of my favorite things about nomading is the people I’m sharing the road with. While circumstances can and do play a role, life without walls very often is or becomes a deliberate choice to live differently than the “norm.” And with that comes seeing differently.

An inspiring interview for those of us with dreams of doing the same!

Go Into the Forest and Come Out Completely Different

1. What are you doing wandering around the fields on such a freezing cold morning?

2. We don't get to see a real winter landscape so often here, I am just making the most of it while I can, its breathtaking isn't it?

3. No, of course not, I’m walking, you have to move around when it's cold!

4. You know what, I think this might be the last time I pick up my gun, except to hang it in its resting place. I’m going to buy a camera instead, at least I will never be cold and bored!

5. Rosie tells me in Shinto, Amaterasu (The Sun) is feminine, and Tsukuyomi (The Moon) is masculine - for me the moon will always be she as in the French - la lune.

6. ‘Susan would benefit greatly from staring less at the clouds and more often at the exercise in front of her” All my school reports had the same reflection from my maths teachers! For those who are as hopeless at anything beyond basic maths as I am you’ll find an example here.