A monthly journal episode: December in three movements, from Lake District walks to Norway’s winter landscapes and early‑year reflections.
As has become my little tradition over the last year or so, the start of a new month gives me a reason to sit down and gather up the threads of the one just gone. And stepping into a new year is no exception. I’ve already shared both my annual Christmas Message and a few words on New Year (do go and read them if you haven’t yet; they hold the reflections I most wanted to offer), so this journal isn’t trying to do that work again. This episode is simply my usual monthly journal, looking back at a month that was full in its own right – a small act of everyday noticing in a life that’s still reshaping itself.
I should probably say clearly that I’m not doing a ‘favourite moments of 2025’ post this year. I’ve written those in other years, and they’ve always been a joy to put together. But as I’m sure you can imagine, this past year doesn’t lend itself to that kind of retrospective. I’ve said what I needed to say about that elsewhere. What I want here is something gentler: a way to mark the shape of the month itself without forcing it into celebration or sentimentality, a way to honour the quiet persistence of simply keeping going.
December in Three Movements
December held five days in Cumbria, a sunrise walk on the almost‑shortest day, and ten days in Norway to close out the year – enough texture and movement to stand on its own. And this month’s rambles will be a little record of the places I stood, the weather I walked through, the moments that helped me keep going. It’s my way of saying: I made it through December, and now I’m here in early January, ready to begin again; not with grand declarations, but with a quiet breath and a steady step toward whatever comes next.
Five Days in Cumbria
December began with five days in Cumbria; a small pause, a change of air, and a return to a landscape that always seems to breathe a little wilder and freer than the rest of my life. I went to stay with my good friend Fiona, who has the kind of home where muddy boots by the door and a kettle that never quite cools feel like part of the welcome.
I needed time outside, time in those vast Lake District views that stretch your perspective whether you ask them to or not. There’s something about being held by fells and water that steadies me, even when I don’t realise I’m wobbling. Being with a friend who understands that, who meets me exactly where I am, made the week feel like a quiet exhale.
Weather Windows and Small Adventures
The weather was, in true Cumbrian fashion, dramatic. A named storm swept through, bringing sheets of rain and a sky that changed its mind every ten minutes. We spent each morning studying the forecast like a puzzle, trying to work out which sliver of the day might let us outside without being blown sideways. Fiona was recovering from a cold, my legs felt inexplicably heavy, and neither of us were in the mood for big, heroic hikes. Instead, we leaned into high‑value, low‑effort adventures – the kind that remind you that joy doesn’t always require a full-on expedition.
The standout was a loop of Aira Force and Gowbarrow Fell. It’s one of those routes that gives you far more than it asks for: waterfalls, woodland, open fell, and views that roll out in moody, rain‑washed layers. There was enough elevation to get the blood pumping, and goodness me were the falls in full force for our visit! Yes, we got damp. No, it didn’t matter. The whole thing felt spectacular in that understated Lake District way. I’d happily do this one again sometime; there’s a route guide in it at some point, if you fancy that.
The rest of our walks were shorter but no less lovely: Crummock Water in soft grey light, Loweswater with its quiet shoreline, Burnbank Fell in a rare burst of brightness as the sun set, and Fleswick Bay – which meant re‑walking the first couple of miles of the Coast to Coast. There was something unexpectedly comforting about that, like revisiting an old chapter and finding it still fits.
Being Gently Looked After
You’ll already have read about our Fellside Sauna experience at Derwentwater, an invigorating plunge into cold water and heat that left me feeling more alive than I had in weeks. Beyond that, we wandered the Taste of Cumbria Christmas market in Cockermouth, had dinner at The Round (Pike O’ Pickle for me, which was excellent), and spent evenings either by the fire or watching some truly terrible Christmas films. You know, the kind that are so bad they become their own kind of joy, because you just can’t stop watching!
By the time I headed home, I wasn’t carrying revelations or grand insights, just a little more breath in my lungs and a sense of having been gently looked after. I’m grateful for friends who open their homes, who feed me well, who understand my limits without making them feel like failures. And for landscapes that remind me, quietly and without fuss, that there is still beauty to be found in the in‑between days.
Sunrise on (nearly) the Shortest Day
Did you know: the winter solstice isn’t the whole of the shortest day – it’s an exact moment. A single point on the clock when the Northern Hemisphere tilts as far from the sun as it’s going to. This time around, that moment was 3.03pm on 21 December 2025. I spent the entirety of that day travelling from before sunrise to after sunset, which felt unintentionally poetic. So the day before, I got up my local hill for sunrise, a small act of claiming my own solstice ritual before disappearing into airports and train stations.
The morning was cold and quiet. A few other early risers were scattered along the path, but mostly it was just me, the frost, and the soft scrape of boots on frozen ground. When I reached the top, the hill was split in two: one half swallowed in thick cloud, the other glowing in pale winter sun. The wind kept pushing the cloud across the landscape, revealing and hiding the view in eerie sweeps. It was beautiful in that understated, slightly uncanny way that winter does so well, a kind of weather‑made theatre that didn’t need an audience.
As in the Lake District, there was no revelation waiting for me up there, just a quiet reminder that the light always returns, even if only by a minute or two each day. Cycles continue, even when life feels paused. Watching the sun lift itself over the edge of the cloud as the mist rolled over the edge of the hill and into the valley was an absolute pleasure.
It was a wonderful hour outside, and despite still having 10 days to go, was my last one in the UK for 2025. A gentle marker before the year’s final journey.
In Search of Core Memories in Norway
When I booked a Gutsy Girls trip to Venabu, I did it with a very particular intention: to spend Christmas doing something different, something spacious, something that might help me breathe a little more deeply. It was a fully organised group trip – eight of us plus our wonderful host Lily – with everything included except travel. For once, I didn’t have to plan the adventure; I could simply show up and let someone else hold the logistics. At this time of year, and in this season of life, that felt like a gift in itself. I went hoping for a new core memory. What I didn’t expect was to come home with a whole constellation of them.
The heart of the trip was learning to cross‑country ski (classic style, not skate), and it was every bit the challenge and joy I hoped it would be. I’m still very much a beginner, but I found a rhythm: moving forward in the tracks as well as making my own, gliding across frozen lakes and through tree‑lined corridors of snow. Our instructor, Ingrid, was extraordinary: patient, clear, adaptable, and full of infectious joy. The kind of teacher who makes you believe you can do more than you think. I left wanting to learn more, go further, feel more confident – a lovely reminder that the wild part of me is still very much alive.
More than Skiing
Beyond skiing, the week was threaded with other adventures: snowshoeing, a horse‑drawn sleigh ride, dog sledding, sledging, a sauna and ice plunge in a frozen lake, and a picnic by a partially frozen waterfall that felt like stepping into another world. I’ll save the details for the adventure journals, but each activity was beautifully organised and full of that quiet, steady joy that comes from being outdoors in good company.
And then, well, the Northern Lights. Within 10 minutes of arriving at the hotel on the first night, the sky began to dance. They returned again and again over the next few evenings, each display more astonishing than the last. The best part was sharing that childlike wonder with Jenny, who was even more excited than I was and who has now become a friend. We laughed so much. Those nights outside, necks craned to the sky, willing our fingers to keep feeling for just a few more minutes, will stay with me for a very long time. Pure, unequivocal joy.
Christmas itself was celebrated the Norwegian way, thanks to the incredible team at the hotel. It felt like being welcomed into a 100‑strong family: the walk to the local church for the carol service (all in Norwegian), the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, the dancing around the tree, and even an individually wrapped gift for every guest. For a group of women who had all chosen to spend Christmas away from home for our own reasons, it was unexpectedly tender.
Exploring Oslo
After Venabu, I had extended my trip with two days to explore Oslo. And I wasn’t the only one – half the group had done the same, and it was lovely to spend extra time with some of the ladies. I wandered winter streets, explored the Christmas market, visited a metal bar (yes, really), took a VoiceMap tour, sailed on the fjord, climbed a local hill for sunset, and – the highlight – joined the locals in their floating sauna tradition. I am now a full convert to the sauna‑and‑ice‑plunge life, and absolutely need to find more of these in the UK.
Closing out the year abroad felt both strange and comforting. I went looking for one new core memory and came home with many, threaded through with connection, adventure, and the reminder that even in the midst of grief, joy still finds its way in. I think my husband would be proud of that. Proud that I chose to be proactive in my grief, to give the wild part of myself some room to breathe, and to make Christmas into something new.
As I say, there will be many more words on this trip in an upcoming adventure journal series. I also attempted to vlog, and assuming the footage is worth it (I’ve not looked at it yet…!), there will be a video or two coming your way soon, too.
Looking at 2026
I’m not making resolutions this year, and I’m not setting big goals. It’s simply not the time in my life to funnel myself toward a single direction or pretend I have clarity I don’t. Life is still complicated, still uncertain, and I’m learning – slowly, sometimes clumsily – how to live inside that. What I do want is something quieter: a hope for steadier ground, a little more room to breathe, and the courage to keep showing up for this new world I find myself in.
One thread I know I’ll keep holding onto is spending time outdoors every day. It’s become one of the few rhythms that reliably steadies me, a way to mark time, to move my body, to feel connected to something bigger than whatever is happening in my own life. Even on the days when I only manage a short walk, it helps. It reminds me that I’m still here, still moving, still capable of choosing small acts of everyday care for myself.
Human Intentions
If I have intentions at all, they’re small and human. More light. More breath. Space to get to know whoever I’m becoming now. A commitment to finding myself again, to honouring my husband in the way I live, and to putting one foot in front of the other even on the days when that feels like enough of an achievement. These aren’t ambitions so much as gentle directions, the kind you can follow without forcing anything.
In my New Year message, I offered an invitation that I’m holding onto myself: Speak honestly. Move gently. Let yourself be enough. Even in the midst of rebuilding. That feels like the truest way I can step into 2026, not with declarations or reinventions, but with a quiet willingness to keep going. To give myself the chance to grow into this new life at a pace I can bear. And to trust that living life well is its own kind of everyday courage, a way of making something of a future I’m still learning to imagine.
See You Next Time
January seems to have filled itself with mini‑adventures before I’ve even had the chance to plan them: my first quirky stay of 2026, a new craft to learn with a friend, and – if all goes well – my first UK‑based sauna of the year. A gentle, joyful start to the months ahead.
If you missed it, my final quirky stay blog and video of 2025 went live right at the end of December, so do catch up on that one – it was a particularly quirky one to finish off the series. And keep an eye out for my One Hour Outside daily photo challenge, which I’ll be launching later in January ahead of a February filled with outdoor fun. I’m really looking forward to seeing how you join in.
As we step into 2026, let me repeat my simple invitation to you: honour yourself in whatever way feels right for you this year. Whether that’s rest, adventure, creativity, quiet, or something entirely your own, I hope you find moments that help you feel grounded and alive.
See you next time.
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