There’s a certain kind of day that asks nothing more of you than to walk — slowly, quietly, and without purpose beyond the journey itself.
This was one of those days.
The sun was shining, but the wind carried just enough bite to keep things feeling fresh — the kind of breeze that turns your collar and reminds you that nature always has a say in the matter. Dorota and I set out from Czechowice, with Monty trotting ahead, full of enthusiasm, leading the way toward Goczałkowice-Zdrój.
The path wound along the track between the lake and the railway lines, where the occasional rumble of a train added rhythm to the birdsong and rustling leaves. We paused often — not because we were tired, but because there was always something worth pausing for. A view across the water. The light flickering through the trees.
Monty dashing through the grass like it was his own private playground.
We wandered through the park — a pocket of calm, tucked between places — and then began our slow return, back across the open fields. The wind followed us. So did the light.
What struck me most wasn’t the destination, or even the scenery — though both were beautiful. It was the quiet companionship. The simple joy in Monty’s steps. The way time seems to stretch when you’re not in a hurry.
This wasn’t an adventure. It was something gentler — a kind of moving stillness. A reminder that home isn’t just where you begin or end… it’s found in the space between.
