Just something that happened earlier.
Essex isn't really known for river valleys, but it has them, and I'm blessed enough to live in one. I walk this land where I live day in, day out; it's my home in such a way that the house that I live in is not.
It wasn't windy when I left; or if it was I didn't notice it. It's barely noticeable where the valley ends and the flat fields puncuated with woodland begin. I'd walked to the edge of the estate belonging to the old Tudor manor and back; the dog and I pattered across the footbridge, over Parsonage Farm Lane and followed the trodden path through the wheat to the slope with the plank across the ditch, making our way down to the willows and back up through the copse.
There I stood at the top of the hill, looking across to the village and the river valley beyond. The wind moaned, grabbing at my hair, my coat, my face smarted. A reluctant sun silvered the shivering bean fields as clouds cast a moving curtain across the green; behind me the hedge of thorn and field maple crackled.
And that was all there was. I closed my eyes and let the elements, earth, sky and sun cloak me. There was nothing there to ask, nothing the wind could tell me, nothing to find consolation in outside of nature itself.
And there was nothing else that I needed.