A new series of short stories set in the deep past but inspired by the every day experiences of this little life I’ve been gifted: seeking to illuminate mundane moments like these lost to the mists of time.

A wind-swept Mam Tor, Derbyshire, standing strong against the ravages of Storm Isha this week Her hands slipped and she dropped the flints, causing her to shout out in frustration. Her fingers were stiff with cold and she struggled to grip the small stones that she hoped would send a spark into the pile of wood shavings waiting to be consumed by fire. The walls of their earth-built cottage protected her from the loud-voiced wind but she could hear it howling around her, whistling as it raced through the trees. Every now and then it would stop, a moment of calm amidst the chaos, the silence almost oppressive, before building up again. The thatch lifted in places, rattling against the wooden rafters that were struggling to keep hold of the roof. She was grateful (in this moment, although it frustrated her in others) that her little home had no windows: the walls guarded her, keeping her safe against the wild forces of nature making their fierce journey through the earth. hrime gehyrsted, hagolscurumn færð gecond middangeard Martius reðe, Hlyda healic. adorned with frost, with hail-showers fierce March journeys through the earth, loud-voiced Hlyda. The Menologium, tr. Parker (2022, p.97).