Boxing Day, a day when we usually head for the moors for a walk. But today, the mist was thick here in the foothills, so up on the open moor it would surely be thick fog. Instead we chose a slow wander around the lanes here.

The hedgerows were full of life, from the remnants of autumn bounty, a few brave flowers, new shoots promising the forthcoming spring.

Sound was slightly muffled by the damp air, but the sky was alive with the cries of raven, yaffle, fieldfare, buzzard, the ticking alarm call of blackbirds, the tinkling chitter of long tailed tits.

It’s a familiar route, down blissfully quiet lanes. Each tree a well known friend. There are always so many wonders. Dew laden spiders webs, deer slots in the mud, mouse nibbled hazelnuts, animal holloways. Colour and shape, wildness and life and decay and hope.

I’m finding this is what I’m craving. Not a bucketlist of exotic trips around the globe, instead quieter, gentler joys. I know I’m blessed beyond measure to live in such a beautiful area and know many don’t have that privilege.

However there seems to be an increasingly frantic Instagram perfect ticklist of places to visit, to “do”, before rushing on to the next place to be seen. I often wonder what “doing” Dartmoor, or Mull or Thailand or wherever, really gives anyone. What do we actually see?

Maybe slowing down allows us to see the beauty wherever we are. Rather than an endless yearning to “do”, it’s just about being, wherever we are.