Brecon Beacons, late June. We followed the stream together, the three of us, just walking, no real plan. The air was warm, the water clear and quick, and Ruby kept darting ahead, then circling back. We stopped here for a while, all of us quiet, just listening to the stream. I took this just before we moved on.
Afon Bach—a small stream, winding through moss-covered rocks and dense green undergrowth, offered a moment of stillness in motion. The water cascades gently, not with force, but with rhythm, threading its way through the forest like a whispered story. Ferns fringe the banks, and a fallen tree, softened by moss, leans into the scene like a memory.
Light filters through the canopy, catching on droplets and leaves, painting the moment with warmth. The forest feels close here, intimate, damp, alive. There’s no grandeur, no drama. Just the quiet insistence of nature doing what it does best: flowing, growing, holding space.
Ruby’s presence is felt even when she’s out of frame, her energy, her curiosity, her quiet companionship. This wasn’t a planned stop, but it became one. A pause. A breath. A moment to notice the sound of water and the way it echoes through the trees.
Afon Bach reminds me that some of the most profound moments happen when we’re not looking for them. In the hush of a forest stream. In the company of those who walk beside us. In the decision to stop, listen, and let the moment be enough.
Brecon Beacons, late June. We followed the stream together, the three of us, just walking, no real plan. The air was warm, the water clear and quick, and Ruby kept darting ahead, then circling back. We stopped here for a while, all of us quiet, just listening to the stream. I took this just before we moved on.
Afon Bach—a small stream, winding through moss-covered rocks and dense green undergrowth, offered a moment of stillness in motion. The water cascades gently, not with force, but with rhythm, threading its way through the forest like a whispered story. Ferns fringe the banks, and a fallen tree, softened by moss, leans into the scene like a memory.
Light filters through the canopy, catching on droplets and leaves, painting the moment with warmth. The forest feels close here, intimate, damp, alive. There’s no grandeur, no drama. Just the quiet insistence of nature doing what it does best: flowing, growing, holding space.
Ruby’s presence is felt even when she’s out of frame, her energy, her curiosity, her quiet companionship. This wasn’t a planned stop, but it became one. A pause. A breath. A moment to notice the sound of water and the way it echoes through the trees.
Afon Bach reminds me that some of the most profound moments happen when we’re not looking for them. In the hush of a forest stream. In the company of those who walk beside us. In the decision to stop, listen, and let the moment be enough.