Rock-a-bye

You forget, when you haven't done it for over 30 years, how exacting the disciplines of early parenthood are. You don't just 'go for a walk', you plan a manoeuvre. Pick a route that fits the sleeping window - including backout contingencies, optional extensions, fail-safe alternatives. Around that, you plan the lead in - when to be awake and active, when to feed, what clothes to don at which point, how to travel, how to transfer to a sling-carrier without protest

For the child, the walk is a sleep-time - the soothing rhythm of parental steps; the dappled light of a winter beechwood - hopefully filtering through dancing eyelids and awakening ancestral dreams; the heritage of the wyld - the lullaby of a stream in the green nursery hush

Because he was asleep, he couldn't see the wonder of the sculpted wall; or learn about the softness of limestone, the wind and the ice and the acid rain in this high, weather-beaten place. There will be other walks on other days for granfather's ramblings. (Do the birds have a role here too, I wondered? In our redbrick farmhouse they had favourite bricks - source of grit for their gizzards - hollowed out until they were empty shells) 

The retreat to base requires a sergeant's orchestration: 'you, turn the car round; you, hold the child; you, put these in the boot; I'll do the transfer; you buckle him in; everyone get in as fast as possible; get the car moving straight away.' What a tactical triumph; what a symphony 

Flushed with success, we regroup around the kitchen table. Our abundant reward: the balm of the quiet wood; and a smile