There is a moment, at this time of year, when the land seems to hold its breath. The days fall into their muted rhythm; light glances off bare branches; the wind carries a cool clarity that seems to sharpen the edges of everything. It feels like an invitation, not to rush, but to venture slowly, to see what the season reveals when life softens its pace.

If you follow the road out of Sedbergh, the town narrows gently into lanes that seem to fold themselves into the base of the Howgills. These hills don’t shout for attention; they rise quietly, smooth-backed and rounded, the kind of landscape you feel more than you see. Their slopes, brushed with winter grasses, look almost velvet in the morning light. Sheep cluster near the stone walls, their breath white as cloud in the cool air.

The river runs beside you for much of the journey, the Rawthey moving quickly over its stones, gathered from the fells and carried downstream. In winter, the water feels restless, as if eager to outrun the cold. There’s a rhythm to it, a pulse that keeps the valley awake even on the stillest days.

Further on, the hamlets appear, just a scatter of cottages, low and whitewashed, their chimneys leaning gently into the cold. Smoke rises in thin ribbons; a dog barks in a distant yard; someone closes a gate with the slow certainty of someone who has done so every morning of their life. The sound is small but distinct: wood on wood, winter settling into its day.

And then, at the valley’s narrowest point, Dent reveals itself.

A village you don’t stumble upon so much as arrive into, as though the landscape has guided you there by hand. Cobbled streets glisten slightly, worn smooth by time and weather. The cottages sit shoulder to shoulder, white walls bright against the muted stone of the hills behind them. There’s a kind of hush to Dent, not silence, but a gentle civility. A place where people greet you on the street, not out of habit, but because it’s simply what you do here.

Just on the fringe of the village are our Bath House making rooms, tucked quietly beside the valley, the place where every product begins its life. The scent of essential oils and carefully crafted artisan fragrances drift through the workshop windows sometimes blends with woodsmoke from the cottages nearby, lending the air its own distinct character. We’ve always felt that Dent brings something steady and grounding to our work, as though the landscape itself has a hand in the creation. 

A little further into the village you’ll find the old chapel, a modest, building with a peaceful presence. Once a place of worship, it’s now a meditation and yoga centre. Some of our team go there on winter mornings before work, unrolling their mats in the soft light, warming cold hands on mugs of tea afterwards. It’s a rhythm that sits so naturally within the life of the village: small acts of stillness held quietly in a place shaped by centuries of calm. 

From here, the walk towards the churchyard is short. The stone church stands with its quiet composure, framed by ancient trees and the sound of the River rushing in the near distance. If you pause here, you can feel the valley breathing, slow, steady, patient.

Walking these lanes in the days between Christmas and New Year,  the Twixtmas lull feels like stepping into a rhythm that has existed far longer than any of us. The land sets the pace, and you fall into it naturally: slower, more attentive, more attuned. And perhaps that is the gift of this place, of winter, of small journeys, of valleys that carry you from one world to the next.

A reminder that wellbeing doesn’t always come from grand gestures, but from moments like these: a walk between villages, the sound of fast water, cold air on warm skin, the sight of a white-painted cottage against a grey sky, the steady, reassuring presence of hills.

The kind of moments that make you pause. And breathe.

And feel, if only for a moment, entirely in step with the world around you.