But that was last weekend, at a music festival. It even fell to me to light the fire, a task my hands are practiced at. The ritual of coaxing flame from wood was mine, as many times in the past.
Today I rode the chalk hills where the sun was bright and the wind keen. Familiar ridges and slopes turned a cold shoulder upon the traveller. I am theirs, but they are not mine.
From the bent grass of a bleak ridge I looked across a misty sky. A watery afternoon sun curved above a soft horizon pierced by gauzy trees. Light glinted on pools in the wet valley.
Brena strode out across the springy turf on her first ride in two weeks. From the saddle I tightened her girth, easier than it looks with a Western saddle. She's lost a tiny bit of that summer weight.
Twilight crept upon us early, expanding steadily but slowly in that northern latitude winter way. A twilight that gives plenty of time to head for home then surprises the traveller with deep gloom.
We were alone at the parking area. So everyone else was doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. We unmaterialistic ones watched the bright crisp sunset. Then we headed home, Brena for her cozy stable, me for food and cider in a warm study.