The period from January to March has never enjoyed the best reputation. We tend to think of the first quarter of the year as grey, wet and a little bleak. And this year, if we are honest, that judgment hasn’t been entirely unfair. There has been rain. Plenty of it. But at the start of the year, I made two decisions. First, I was determined to find winter colour and joy. To actively seek it out. To prove that even in the depths of winter, Sussex still has moments that pop, if you’re prepared to look for them.
Second, I decided to view Sussex through a particular lens in 2026. Our overarching theme this year is history, heritage and folklore and in particular, I have been quietly following the thread of 1066 and the Battle of Hastings. And what I have discovered is this: when you look with intention, you see differently. When you follow a thread, dots begin to join.
If there’s sun and blue sky, drop everything
The first mantra I have tried to live by this year is simple. If there is a glimpse of blue sky, take it. Stop what you’re doing, if you possibly can, and go. We don’t get many chances to top up our vitamin D at this time of year, so don’t miss the opportunity if it presents itself. I’ve done this three times in the past eight weeks. Each time felt slightly impulsive. Each time paid off spectacularly.
Wilmington at sunrise
One bitterly cold morning, we climbed up onto the Downs at Wilmington before sunrise, near the Long Man of Wilmington. At first it felt lunar. Frozen ground. Thick cloud drifting in and out. We were quite literally walking through cloud with the world reduced to shifting greys.
Then the clouds lifted. The sun rose. And suddenly the Downs were transformed. Ponies grazing in frost. Light catching the chalk. That extraordinary, other-worldly stillness you only get in winter. It felt ancient. Timeless. As though we had stepped into another century.
A few days earlier at nearby East Dean, I had found myself following the old drovers’ paths, looking down towards Pevensey Bay. And for a moment, through my 1066 lens, I realised that a Saxon standing on that same ridge 960 years before me might have spotted the Norman fleet entering the bay. It was another spectacularly cold, clear day and staring down the telescope of history felt epic. Back in the village, I read about a rumour that William the Conqueror had a half-sister who held land in East Dean. Once you begin pulling these threads, they start to weave together.
Battle under blue sky
On another rare blue day, when Battle was our Town of the Month, I dropped everything and headed east. Walking through Battle Great Wood under the sharpest January sky, I was struck by how much colour there was. Ochres. Rusts. Moss greens. Winter light has a clarity that summer never quite manages.
A detour to Crowhurst led me to an extraordinary ancient tree, steeped in local lore. Both King Harold and William are said to have connections to it. And suddenly that tree joined a mental dot with an ancient yew near Wilmington that also carries a whisper of Norman association. This is what I mean about seeing differently.
Kingley Vale at first light
The third sunny day was an early start with my son at Kingley Vale. We raced along the lower path, breath visible in the cold air, determined to reach the ancient yew forest and climb to the Devil’s Humps before the sun broke the horizon. Again, winter colour. Deep greens. Burnished golds. Frost silvering the grass. Sunlight catching the flooded plains below.
It was February. And yet it was anything but grey. So yes, my first tip is simple: if the sun appears, seize it. Winter rewards those who respond quickly.
Go a little weird
The second lesson I’ve lived by this quarter has been to embrace the unusual. With this in mind, as part of our history, heritage and folklore theme, I made a point of attending as many wassails as I could find. From Hurstpierpoint to Steyning and then into Hove to meet a troop of mummers, each event was entirely different, but all were vibrant. Firelight. Ribbons. Cider. Song. Mud. Laughter.
In the middle of January, when the narrative tells us everything is dormant, here were pockets of colour and centuries-old ritual continuing quietly across Sussex. They made a completely different backdrop to winter. And again, through the lens of heritage, these were not simply quirky evenings out. They were living threads of continuity. Echoes of agrarian belief systems. Community resilience. Seasonal rhythm.
Embrace the gloom
If you’ve never tried it (and only if it’s safe to do so), my third lesson for winter is to head out into the dark. There are organised night walks run by local walking groups across Sussex, and if you prefer structure and company, they are a wonderful way to experience the landscape differently. I tend to go alone, usually with a dog, and very often very early, before the sun has even considered rising. Occasionally, I head out at night. I do stress this: it must be safe. Know your route. Tell someone where you’re going. Respect the conditions.
But when it is safe, night walking changes everything. The landscape takes on a completely different dimension when seen through a night lens. I rarely use a torch; your eyes adapt astonishingly quickly. Shapes soften. Familiar paths feel ancient and mysterious. The Downs become vast silhouettes.
And the sounds. You hear whole other worlds at work, rustling, calling, the strange almost-human cries of foxes, owls breaking the silence, the distant movement of unseen animals. If you’re out early enough, there is a moment before the first birdsong. Total stillness. Absolute quiet. Then one bird strikes the first note. It is like a conductor lifting a baton. A single thread of sound. Then another answers. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the darkness loosens its grip.
It is a remarkable moment to be part of.
Hunkering down
Embracing the gloom, however, is not only about venturing into it. Sometimes it is about surrendering to it. Accepting that it is pouring with rain. That the wind is rattling the windows. That the sky is the colour of pewter and likely to remain so. And instead of fighting it, go with it.
There have been many days so far this year when I have happily pulled on my softest jumper, my most indulgent pyjamas, lit a candle and settled in front of a roaring fire with a hearty glass of something Sussex, a wedge of local cheese or something sweet and sticky.
Other days have been spent in the warm fug of a pub or café, windows steamed from wet coats and damp dogs, the air thick with conversation, good food and laughter. There is something deeply satisfying about gathering inside while the weather does its worst beyond the glass. That too is seasonal living. That too is colour.
But not every decision to “embrace the elements” has been wise. One recent expedition over the border into Kent was a lesson in knowing when to stay home. I did not hunker down. I went out exploring. And I got drenched. Properly drenched. Rain, sleet, snow, mud — the lot. Bitterly cold and soaked through from head to foot.
And yet? It was still an excellent day. The kind of day that imprints itself on you. The sort you will never quite forget. Because sometimes embracing the gloom means stepping into it fully and discovering that even the bleakest weather carries its own kind of exhilaration. But I am looking forward to spring.
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