Spring sneaks in when you’re not looking. One minute it’s all hard ground, bare trees, damp mornings. Then you look again, and something’s changed. Just a little. Something green pushing through. The smell of the air different somehow, softer. Like the land’s stretching itself awake after months of hibernation.
We needed a walk. Proper walk. Not just a stretch-your-legs-on-the-way-to-the-shop kind of thing but out there, in the middle of nowhere, boots in the mud, wind in your face, lungs full of something that isn’t central heating or pub air.
Bertie knew it too. He’d been pacing since we got back. That kind of dog restlessness that means take me outside now or suffer the consequences.
So we went.
Pickering to the Moors. Old habits.
Path was quiet. No one around, just the wind cutting through, making its usual racket. The sky that classic Yorkshire grey, threatening rain but not quite getting there. It smelled like wet earth and sheep. The ground still a bit frozen in places, cracking underfoot.
Bertie tore ahead, legs going twice as fast as they needed to, ears flapping. The sheer joy of it. Sometimes I think he loves this place more than we do.
It was empty, apart from the odd bird overhead, the occasional half-fallen dry stone wall marking some old boundary no one remembers. That’s the thing about the Moors. They don’t give much away. Just let you pass through, like they’re watching, deciding whether or not you belong here.
We took the packhorse trail. The one we always take. Feels ancient, even though there’s nothing left of it but a worn track and the occasional pile of stones where someone, once, had tried to make shelter.
You always wonder, in places like this. Who walked here before? What were they carrying? What were they running from? Or to?
Did they have a dog like Bertie, legging it ahead, convinced he was leading the expedition?
And then—sheep.
Blocking the path. Staring at us, chewing.
Bertie froze. Instant stand-off.
I could see it happening in real time. His little brain working overtime. I am a wolf. I am a hunter. These creatures will bow before me.
One of the sheep took a slow, deliberate step forward.
And just like that—our brave warrior turned and bolted behind my legs.
Lad’s got the heart of a lion, until confronted with a sheep that refuses to move.
The sheep, obviously, were unbothered. They shifted, eventually, with a look that said we were going anyway, don’t think you scared us, and that was that.
Walk ended at the little tearoom by the valley.
Warm inside. Smelled like old books and fresh scones. A woman behind the counter who looked like she’d been there forever, barely raising an eyebrow at the two half-muddy people and the dog who collapsed dramatically at their feet like he’d just finished the Iditarod.
Tea arrived. Hot, strong. No frills. A bit of cake because we’d earned it.
Outside, the Moors carried on, same as they always have, same as they always will.
Good walk. First of many.
