On Weathering January: A long, rain‑soaked month of small joys and heavy moments, as the quiet work of carrying on one mini adventure at a time continues.
January always feels like a strange month, but this one has been particularly odd. I mean, it seems to have contained at least twenty weeks inside it, and yet somehow it also feels like only a day or two since I came home from Norway on New Year’s Eve. Time has stretched and folded in on itself in that peculiar early‑year way, where the days are long, the light is short, and everything feels slightly out of sync.
It’s been relentlessly wet, too. The kind of rain that settles in and refuses to leave, turning footpaths into muddy yet reflective pools and making every One Hour Outside feel like a small act of determination. And yet, despite the sogginess, the winter has been mostly mild. The daffodil bulbs I planted back in the autumn have already started to push their way up, weeks earlier than I expected. Snowdrops are out, hedges are greening, and there’s a quiet sense that the year is shifting, even if the season hasn’t quite caught up with itself.
In all that, January has been a month of recalibration. A time to take stock, to notice what’s heavy and what’s hopeful, and to figure out how to move through the year ahead with some kind of intention. And that in itself, feels incredibly complicated.
One Hour Outside Photo Challenge Starts Today
Before I get into the rest of this month’s reflections, a quick nudge that my One Hour Outside February photo challenge is now underway. This is a gentle daily prompt to help you step outside, notice something new, and shift the way you look at the world – just a little. I’m aiming to post my snaps each day on Instagram. No promises, but I’m giving it my best shot.
I started this morning up on Cleeve Hill for the first prompt: Me, Outside. It felt like a fitting way to begin – the challenge and the month. I had a lovely brisk walk in the drizzle, and grabbed a photo with my phone wedged in some long grass. If you’re joining in, I’d love to see your day‑one photo. Tag me @Splodz so it pops up in my notifications.
The Strange Shape of January
January has been a month of extremes, and not in the adventurous, snow‑covered, fjord‑lined way I ended 2025. I came home from Norway on New Year’s Eve feeling lighter than I had in months. That trip was absolutely the right decision for me at the time: a deliberate act of stepping outside my life so I could breathe again. I’ve been thinking a lot about that feeling since. How being somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere cold and bright and full of texture, helped me remember that I am still capable of joy. That I can still be amazed. That I can still feel like myself.
I want more of that in 2026. More adventures, big and small. Adventures have always given me stories to tell, this isn’t a new discovery, but it is something I’m turning toward with intention now, because I know it works for me. And it’s not just the big trips. Getting outside every day, even for a short walk, makes a huge difference. Moving my body clears my head, gets me thinking bigger than the pit of my sofa, and lets the outside in. It’s the simplest reset button I have. When I go outside, I eat better, I sleep better, and I remember that the world is wider than whatever is swirling in my mind.
The Heaviness
But January? January has been hard. The kind of hard that sits in your bones. Yes, it’s been dark and wet, and that never helps. But it’s also been full of the practicalities that grief demands: paperwork that seems to regenerate overnight, and two court dates that took more out of me than I expected. There is something uniquely exhausting about the administrative side of loss, the way it drags you back into the reality of things, again and again, long after you think you’ve earned a moment’s peace.
I’ve had some small adventures tucked in amongst the grey days; a quirky night in a beach hut, a trip to Birmingham for live music and some in‑person crafting, and a sauna‑and‑cold‑plunge morning in the Cotswolds with a friend. All good things. All things that remind me I’m still here, still able to find moments of delight.
But if I’m honest, I’ve spent a lot of this month in retreat. Curled up in my yellow chair. Watching The Traitors because it requires nothing of me except mild outrage at people I don’t know and admiration for Claudia’s wardrobe. Playing Magic Musicals far too loudly in my kitchen. Letting the weather do whatever it wants while I stay under a blanket.
In some ways, this month has been harder than the ones before it. The grief labyrinth – this strange, shifting landscape I keep finding myself in – has felt dense. The identity crisis that comes with loss has been loud. I’ve had days where I’ve felt like I’m moving backwards, or sinking, or simply stuck. And yet, I know that’s not the whole story. Grief isn’t linear. I’ve said that before, and I’ll keep saying it, mostly to remind myself. Some months are just heavier than others.
Finding the Light
Even in the heaviness, there have been small signs of change. Snowdrops appearing in the verges. The daffodil bulbs I planted in the early autumn pushing their way up through the soil. Light lingering until gone 4.30pm. These tiny seasonal shifts feel like a hand on my shoulder, gently turning me toward whatever comes next.
And alongside the slow turning of the year, there’s been the quiet, steadying presence of friends. I’ve said yes to meeting up more this month, and it’s helped. Sometimes we talk deep, sometimes we chat about absolute nonsense, sometimes both in the same breath – and I always feel better for it. Every adventure I’ve had in January has started with a simple “shall we meet up and do something?”, and while I’ll always value my solo time and the importance of having adventures just for me, sharing days with others has been good for my heart. A reminder that connection doesn’t have to be intense to be meaningful.
I have tried to meet this month with a kind of quiet determination: to be proactive when I have the energy, and to rest when I don’t. To keep seeking out moments that make me feel like myself, whether that’s a walk around the block, a day trip somewhere new, a conversation with a friend, or simply standing outside for a few minutes to breathe. To trust that the combination of time, intention, and the slow turning of the year will help. Little by little.
A Quirky Winter Escape to the Sea
My first quirky stay of 2026 was a last‑minute decision to tie something in with visiting a friend on the south coast. I’ve always wanted to stay in a beach hut, and this felt like my moment. I ended up booking one of the Bournemouth Beach Lodges, a neat little row of wooden huts just along from Boscombe Pier, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Three nights by the sea in the middle of winter, with the ocean quite literally at my front door.
The lodge itself was wonderful: a surprisingly spacious hut with a kitchen, a shower room, a sitting area, and a bed tucked up on a mezzanine reached by paddle steps. Outside, a big deck looked straight out to the water. I spent two days with my friend, including a wander around the winter lights at The Blue Pool (still on if you fancy it), but I also had plenty of time in my little hut, writing, resting, and listening to the constant rhythm of the waves.
And yes, I got in the sea. When you sleep that close to the shoreline, how can you not? My dip was… bracing. There was frost on the sand, which tells you everything you need to know. The sea was warmer than the air, a small mercy, until I got out. The next two mornings brought whipped up waves courtesy of a storm, so no more swimming, but drinking tea on the deck while the weather threw itself around was its own kind of magic.
Even the power cut on my final night didn’t bother me. It just added to the charm. More on this one soon in a full quirky stay write‑up, once I finish the Norway series, that is.
Coloured Yarn and Creativity
One of the things my friend Sarah and I promised ourselves this year was to try some new‑to‑us creative activities, the kind of hands‑on, slightly fiddly, totally absorbing things that pull your brain away from everything else for a while. After all my musings on frittering last year, it felt right to lean into making things again. For our first experiment, we booked a workshop at The Tufting Spot in Birmingham, and it turned out to be an excellent choice.
We booked the starter session, and each came away with our own mini rug, made entirely by our own hands. Well, with the help of the tufting gun and the wonderful Anna!
The whole experience was fun, surprisingly relaxing, and wonderfully colourful. Anna, who has only recently set up the business, was such a good tutor — clear, encouraging, and brilliantly organised. She had everything ready when we arrived: our designs already drawn out on the frames, equipment laid out, and what felt like every yarn colour under the sun stacked around the room. It was the kind of setup that makes you want to dive straight in.
We’re both ‘learn by doing’ people, and tufting suits that perfectly. A few hours of focused making later, we walked out with finished pieces we were genuinely proud of. Mine is a little desert scene, a tiny reminder of my Sahara trip. Sarah’s – a pigeon!
More than anything, the workshop reminded me how good it feels to switch off and make something creative with a friend. A winter afternoon well spent.
A Night with the CBSO
I decided to stay over in Birmingham after the tufting workshop. I actually had my sights set on another quirky stay like the caravan in Bristol, but alas, central Birmingham appears to be lacking in that department. There is the Nirvana Suite at the Malmaison, which absolutely qualifies as quirky, but £375 for one night was too extravagant for a mid‑January treat. So, I ended up in a Premier Inn instead. Perfectly fine, just absolutely not quirky.
The real highlight of the evening was the concert. I went to see the CBSO at Symphony Hall for their Music for Stage and Screen programme, and it was exactly the kind of musical joy I needed. The set list was a brilliant mix of pieces from musicals that have hopped between stage and screen – Funny Girl, The Sound of Music, The Wizard of Oz, Back to the Future, The Producers, Chicago… a proper sweep through decades of storytelling. I loved every minute.
One of my favourite moments was their modern twist on Schwartz’s That’s Entertainment from The Band Wagon, complete with little musical easter eggs tucked in by the orchestra, including a cheeky nod to The Acrobat from the trombone section. It was playful and clever.
As you’ll know from my mini concert reviews last year, live music is one of my absolute favourite things to experience. There’s something about sitting in a concert hall, wrapped in sound, that feels like a thin place for me, a space where my soul can stretch out a bit and be fed. I keep returning to orchestral music whenever I need grounding, inspiration, or simply a moment of wonder.
Wandering Through Birmingham’s Stories
You’ll know by now that whenever I’m in a city for a stopover, I try to make time for a VoiceMap tour. I’ve mentioned them so many times before, but honestly, they’re brilliant, especially if you’re exploring solo and don’t fancy joining a group. You pop your headphones in, follow the directions, and let someone tell you the stories of the streets you’re walking through. It’s like having a knowledgeable friend guide you around, without the pressure of small talk.
Before I set off, I treated myself to the double egg breakfast naan and unlimited chai at Dishoom, possibly even a ritual at this point, and one that never fails to deliver. Warm bread, runny yolks, spiced tea, the perfect fuel for a winter wander.
This time I chose Birmingham’s Rise: From Medieval Settlement to Metropolis, led by Blue Badge guide Verity Tiff. The route wound its way from Moor Street Station to the Golden Boys sculpture outside the ICC, and I spent a couple of hours learning all sorts of things I’d never have discovered on my own. For example: the very first Odeon was in Birmingham; the city has a long‑standing love of elaborate market halls and arcades; and the Bull Ring was originally used for bull baiting because people believed it made the meat more tender. History is wild! Isn’t it good that we live and learn?!
It was exactly the kind of slow, surprising exploration I love, a gentle meander through architecture, industry, and odd little facts, all stitched together by someone who knows the city inside out. A perfect way to round off my Birmingham trip before heading home.
The Wild Sauna
If the last six weeks are anything to go by, I think the sauna‑and‑cold‑plunge life might officially be part of my personality now. I did three in December – one in Cumbria and two in Norway – and this weekend I met up with a friend to continue what appears to be another of my current mini‑projects: touring some of the UK’s wild(ish) sauna spots. As far as projects go, it feels like a good one.
We chose The Wild Sauna at Whichford Mill, a perfect halfway point between the two of us and a beautiful little setup tucked into the Cotswold countryside. For £20 each we had a 90-minute session that included a wood‑fired sauna, a wood‑fired hot tub, and three different ways to cool off: a dip in the river (which was very high and very fast‑flowing on our visit), a dunk in a cold‑water bath, and a cold shower. There were changing rooms, a yurt for relaxing, and even a hot shower if you wanted to warm up properly afterwards. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and there was a resident cat wandering around adding an extra layer of charm to the whole experience. I would highly recommend it if you fancy it some time.
I met up with Jenny, a friend I made on my Norway cross‑country skiing trip, and we spent the entire session nattering about travel and adventure, slipping between the heat and the cold and back again. It was restorative in that simple, elemental way that only fire, water, and good conversation can be. And yes, we’ve already booked our next sauna‑related meet‑up. I really do need to buy a Dryrobe, don’t I?!
See You Next Time…
And that’s January. A month I’ve done my best to make something of, even if I spent much of it feeling like I was wading through emotional mud. It hasn’t been easy – the grief fog has been thick, the paperwork endless, and the weather, well, very January. But I’ve still managed to carve out pockets of joy and movement where I could. Little adventures, creative moments, conversations with friends, and time outside have all helped me keep going, even on the days when I didn’t feel much like myself.
Looking ahead to February, I’m trying to be proactive about filling my days with things that help me live well; fun plans, gentle adventures, moments that lift my shoulders and remind me I’m still here. But I’m also learning (slowly, stubbornly) that rest has to be part of that too. Stopping to think isn’t always easy, and I’m very capable of keeping myself busy enough to avoid feeling anything at all. I’m trying to carve out space to breathe as well as do, to make sure I don’t burn out before spring even arrives.
The days are stretching out now, minute by minute, and that alone feels like a small mercy. I’ve got a couple of theatre trips in the diary, a quirky stay in Wales to look forward to, and the promise of more outdoor time as the light returns. And of course, there’s the One Hour Outside February photo challenge, too.
Here’s to February: to longer days, small adventures, gentle days, and whatever moments of joy we can gather along the way.
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