One of our Sundays
On occasional Autumn days, it's nice to abandon the cars, wrap up the kids (and ourselves) and spend a Sunday simply walking, visiting the places we've been before, doing the things we've done before, just because. There's a hint of Christmas in the air, that underlying excitement that hangs about, silently swimming above our heads until it explodes like a firework on Christmas day and leaves the embers to slowly settle around our feet afterwards.
I've done this walk a million times before, as a college student nervous for their first day in higher education, with friends on a weekend before any of us could drive and as a desperate heavily pregnant woman, pushing herself to walk as fast and as far as she possibly could in the hopes of triggering a birth (it didn't work, but ouch). Now, I'm doing this walk with my own family and my parents are now grandparents and my brother walks alongside us just as he used to, except now, instead of see, we can only feel his presence.
We visited the train museum that reminds me of school trips, picked up festive gifts and tried yorkshire pudding wraps at the Christmas Fayre. We walked for miles, each child hopping on and off of the shoulders of the men of the group, and in and out of the arms of the women, as their little legs tired of such a journey, and then we ventured home as the afternoon sun began to set and it was an ordinarily perfect day (though the boys still didn't give into sleep that night as early as you'd expect).