The gift of Imbolc
Field Notes from a wander around Millington Wood and Sylvan Dale on the first day of spring
Hello walkers and writers 👋🏻
And welcome to everyone who subscribed recently. For anyone new here, I’m a writer who walks to boost my spirits and inspire my writing. If you’d like to know more about this newsletter and why I started it then the edition where I explain the philosophy behind The Writer’s Walk is a good place to begin.
Today’s edition is the first in a new series I’m calling Field Notes. The idea behind it has been bubbling away since I created The Writer’s Walk in 2022 but it’s taken me a while to muster the courage to share it. That’s because Field Notes is a little more personal, and ragged around the edges, than my usual editions because it explores some of my own walks and what I find on them.
So with the welcomes and intro complete, let’s step into my first Field Note. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Millington Wood and Sylvan Dale
This morning I woke with the sound of songbirds. It’s the first time this has happened since I moved to East Yorkshire and it’s quite lovely that it coincides with Imbolc, the first day of spring. It’s also the first day of February, and there’ll be a full moon tonight – the Snow Moon. And for the first time that I can ever remember, I didn’t need a calendar to tell me about the moon’s current phase. I could tell it was almost here as I walked through town yesterday evening, following the light of the moon as it led me home. I rarely saw the moon in London. The light pollution drains all the light. Does it seem odd that I wrote that? How light can drain light? Seeing the moon so clearly last night reminded me that without the darkness of an unlit sky we can never truly appreciate the magic of the light.
I’m letting my thoughts drift like this while I sit on a bench overlooking Millington Wood. It’s becoming my favourite local wood and I came here today to look for rowan trees, listen to the birds and to spot other signs of spring. I’ve recently started carrying books with me when I walk, something I’ll share in a regular edition at some point, and today I brought Lia Leendertz’s Almanac – A Seasonal Guide to 2026. The theme of her almanac this year is the forests and the trees and I brought it to read the chapter on February as I enjoy a brew with a view. Although the murkiness of the day is making the view a bit hard to see.
It’s busier than usual today, with lots of couples walking their dogs, and families with young children. Until a short time ago, the woodland below me was filled with their chatter, interspersed with delighted squeals from a small child, and the occasional bark from a dog. I’m the only person wandering here alone right now – which is something I’m used to. I do see other solitary hikers when I’m out and about, but I see more people in pairs or groups. I like wandering alone but sometimes I wonder if that makes me unusual.
I came here for silence and the presence of other people interrupted that plan. But only briefly. The groups gradually peeled away, returning to their cars, and as the wood settles back into silence, I hear the sound of a high-pitched, short and sharp bird call. I look up and there in the milky sky, a bird of prey, perhaps a honey buzzard, is soaring above the canopy. Perhaps she was also waiting for this moment of quiet and solitude. The type that can only be found among the trees.
I leave the bench and head down the steep steps that weave between the trees. Millington is an ancient wood. It’s only small – just 52 acres – but it’s one of the richest botanical woodlands in the East Riding and is a nature reserve and Site of Special Scientific Interest. It dates back around 1,000 years and, at its heart, a small pocket of ash trees remain.
As I reach the valley I see that the path is blocked by a fallen Norway spruce and a cluster of its leaves have been placed on a stump, almost like an offering. Millington Wood is managed by the East Riding of Yorkshire Council’s Countryside Access Team. There’s a note on their webpage that explains how they’re managing the woodland, which includes removing the Norway spruce that cast heavy shade. I wonder if this tree fell by accident or by force.
Walking on, once again I find myself looking up, drawn to the sound of the birds. I spot this chap sleeping on the job, his mossy cap keeping him warm, no doubt.
Millington wood sits within Lily Dale and I wonder if this name is what draws me here. I come from a long line of women, on my mum’s side, who were either called Lily or, like my mum, Lily was their middle name. I think of my mum for a while. This month marks the anniversary of her death. Three years gone but still the voice of reason in my head.
Back at my car I realise I’m not done with walking yet today, so maybe now’s the time to explore nearby Sylvan Dale. I’ve spotted the finger post that points toward it many times on my drives down to Millington but have yet to have a nosey. Now’s my chance.
I drive down and park beside the road between two cars, then head down the track, crossing a footbridge to reach the start of the Dale. As I start my walk, I hear a call above, look up and spot my feathered friend. I wish I was better at identifying birds. I don’t know if she’s a hawk, a kestrel or a falcon. I do know that I’m happy she’s here.
The Yorkshire Wolds Way passes through Sylvan Dale and as I begin the steady ascent up its steep sides I make a mental note to get myself hill-walking fit ahead of my plan to walk the whole trail at some point this year.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a Sylvan is a being who inhabits the woods. Perhaps that’s how this place got its name and I wonder if there’s a folklore connected to it. I wonder, too, where all the trees have gone.
The Yorkshire Wolds is an interesting place to walk. We have hills rather than mountains and it’s what I’d call a soft landscape. But don’t let that fool you into thinking this makes for easy walking. The hills are deceptive and the public footpaths offer sharp ascents that get your heart pumping. It’s always wise to stop when you reach the top and look back at where you walked, so I do that now. The clouds are dropping down to meet the land but in summer I imagine the views will be glorious. I make another mental note to bring a picnic for my warm weather walks here.
Earlier this week I chatted with someone from Derbyshire. We’d compared the landscapes of home and she shared with me that she finds vast, flat landscapes disorienting. They’re hard to navigate, she told me, and the open space brings a feeling of agoraphobia.
I’m reminded of this conversation as I stand at the bottom of Sylvan Dale, its valley drifting away in a curve ahead of me, its grassy sides rising swiftly on all sides. I feel a moment of claustrophobia. A fear I’ve carried with me my whole life. I’m not afraid of flat landscapes. As a lowland lass, growing up around Hull and the Holderness, I barely raised my heartbeat when I walked its flattened paths.
So I wonder now, as I stand between the hills thinking of that conversation, did growing up in the Yorkshire flatlands contribute to my claustrophobia? And is it why I’m also not good with heights? For a moment I feel hemmed in between these hills, unable to see beyond the curve of the Dale as it swerves away, not knowing what’s beyond.
And maybe that’s what adventure looks like for me. A gentle hill – at least compared with most in the UK – a dabble along the Dales as I wander the Sylvan curves.
There’s a thrill to be found in doing something for the first time, just for yourself and no one else. Even more if you choose to do it slowly and silently so you can savour every sip. Like acknowledging the claustrophobic feeling that threatens at the corners of my mind, then taking a step onward, and being rewarded for facing my fear and walking on anyway. It’s not a reward I could measure by awards, applause or gravitas. But by the contentment in being who I am. And by embracing the person I’m becoming through my footsteps.
As I carry on up the hill, the clouds sink toward me, and I decide to turn back. Sylvan Dale will still be here, ready to welcome me another time. I hear a final call from my raptor and think about what adventure means to her – and what it means to me. And I realise adventure doesn’t need to be fierce or wild. It can be soft and unexpected like the kiss of a hill as it rises up beneath your feet.
As always, thanks for reading and walking with me. I hope you’ve enjoyed this Field Note – and maybe feel inspired to try your own. I love hearing what you find from these posts, as well as what you discover on your own walks, so please let me know what you find.
Happy walking and writing until next time.
Sarah
More from The Writer’s Walk
If you enjoyed this edition, check out Walking to fall in love with a landscape for inspiration on how to make a new place feel like home.
Really loved this meditation on finding adventure in gentle landscapes. The claustrophobia you describe in Sylvan Dale is such an intresting flip from the typical fear of open spaces. I've had similr moments hiking where the terrain itself becomes the challenge, not the altitude or distance. That line about adventure being soft and unexpected realy captures it.
You took me in to the woods and hills with you. So interesting about flat Vs hills and mountains. I find the flat expanses of Norfolk and Lincoln lower my mood. In the mountains of Wales I feel like a raptor soaring round their curves and my heart expands. It's fascinating the effects of the landscape on us and that it's not universal. One of life's mysteries that we can hypothesize about.