The 12th Saturday of 2026
No agenda. Just shoes on, lead most of the walk not clipped, and out the door.
Amy sets the pace — nose down, ears up, wholly committed to whatever story the footpath is telling her today. We wind through Manly the way we always do: past the fig trees, down toward the water, through the kind of light that makes everything look a little more considered than it actually is.
It's not a special day. That's sort of the point.
There's something quietly good about a Saturday that asks nothing of you — one that unfolds at the speed of a cattle dog on a long lead, with nowhere particular to be and the harbour just sitting there, doing its thing, indifferent to your schedule.
I took some photos. Mostly of Amy. A bit of the sky. The usual.
Some days hand you something obvious to be grateful for. Others just hand you this — salt air, a good dog, and enough time to notice it.
