The canal path always felt like a hush wrapped in trees. Even in late spring, even under clouds, the green hung thick and close here—ferns brushing my calves, ivy pulling gently at the fences like it wanted to tell me something. The towpath was damp but not soaked, soft earth giving a little under my boots, and the faint buzz of midges hovered just out of sight. I could see the daycare fence ahead, painted in once-bright pastels now chipped by a dozen winters. I always liked arriving from this side—quieter, tucked into the world like a secret. A burst of laughter drifted over the hedge. Then a shriek. Then a splash. I smiled.
The yard was a patchwork of puddles and chalk, buckets and jars, the aftermath of serious toddler science. Tima was at the centre of it all—barefoot, as usual, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, stirring a plastic beaker of something vaguely lemon-coloured with a stick twice the length of her arm. Eira stood beside her, holding a handful of wildflowers, threading them in one by one with great ceremony. "It's potion tea," Eira declared when she spotted me. "It turns frogs into mums." Tima looked up and nodded sagely, as if this was well-established. "Powerful stuff," I said, crouching beside them. "Any success yet?"
"We're waiting for lightning," Tima whispered, then added a dandelion puff like a final spell. Behind them, a teacher laughed softly. "Colour play today. Yours have taken it to the next level." "I expected nothing less," I said.
Tiny rain began to fall—just a dusting, like the sky hadn't quite made up its mind. I zipped Tima's coat and handed Eira her light waterproof as they loaded their pockets with a final handful of petals and leaves. Tima clutched the beaker tightly. I didn't have the heart to make her leave it behind. We started up the canal path, heading home.
The air smelled of damp bark and nettles, the kind of rain that made the moss seem brighter. Tima pointed out a snail on a leaf; Eira tried to name it "Gerald the Slowpoke." They each held one of my hands, their feet slapping in rhythm, the wet earth making their giggles sound like something ancient and true.
By the time we reached the cottage, the drizzle had become a steady whisper, the kind that patters soft against the roof but never makes you run. Steph's car was already in the drive. I could smell the cawl before we even stepped inside—leek and lamb and thyme drifting out like a hug. The kitchen was warm and full of sound.
Steph stood at the hob, sleeves pushed up and curls pinned back in that chaotic crown she always made look effortless. A wooden spoon in one hand, phone cradled under her chin, and the unmistakable clatter of bowls and wooden chopping boards filling the rest of the space. "Guess who made potions," I said, ushering the girls in.