Early morning was best, just me and the dog in the dark of the den, a candle and some music. The dog shaking her head and the tags on her collar like the sound of a tambourine. Outside it is wild and unsettled with the wind and clouds, spooky light from the waning moon. Early mornings best for memory. Time traveling to past forms: now, a small cottage outside of Bath, a place called Combe Down. A muddy narrow footpath leading to a valley below. The stones old enough they could be Roman, leaning, filled with moss. Early morning walks from the cottage in January as the light is coming on earlier day by day. Alighting at a lake for disabled anglers, never thought of such a thing. Drifting down small dirt roads in the general direction of the cottage but not entirely sure. I am just 45 and recently unemployed with no plans to speak of. A list of books for the new year to catch up on. In February Dawn and I will take the train to Berlin for a Valentine’s Day getaway, our first time alone as a couple since we’ve been in the UK and on the road, three months now. Crossing out of Dover and driving across the French border. Arriving home to mom’s in Germany late afternoon for a warm meal and glass of wine. Climbing the steep, wooden stairs to our rooms. Collapsing into bed to the feeling of clean sheets. Not needing to be anywhere come morning.

Categories: Memoir, prose, travel, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, prose, stream-of-consciousness, travel, William Pearse writer, writing