One of my favourite questions I've ever been asked on a nature walk came from a small voice holding my hand.

"Are there fairies in this forest?"

I smiled—not because I knew the answer, but because I realized the question itself was a gift.

Children rarely arrive in nature looking for what they're "supposed" to find. They don't begin with species lists or trail maps. They arrive ready to wonder.

Adults often do the opposite.

We measure our walks in kilometres, elevation gained, or destinations reached. Children measure them in discoveries.

A snail crossing the path.

A feather caught on a bramble.

A stick that becomes a wizard's staff.

A patch of moss soft enough to deserve a careful touch.

Not long ago, my daughter and I spent several minutes watching a caterpillar making its determined way across a path.

She became increasingly worried that it would give up before reaching the other side.

"It looks tired," she whispered.

I reassured her that the caterpillar had probably crossed many obstacles before this one, and together we watched it continue, one tiny step at a time.

When it finally disappeared into the grass, she celebrated as though she'd been cheering on an old friend.

I don't remember where we had intended to go that day.

I only remember the caterpillar.

Children have an extraordinary ability to remind us that nature isn't a checklist of things to identify or places to visit.

It's a relationship.

They stop for puddles that adults step over.

They notice insects we'd never have seen.

They ask questions that don't always have answers—and somehow make the walk richer because of it.

Walking with children means slowing down.

Sometimes dramatically.

The planned five-kilometre hike becomes one kilometre.

The schedule slips.

The destination almost stops mattering.

What changes isn't just the pace of the walk.

It's the pace of our attention.

Perhaps that's why I enjoy guiding families so much.

Children don't simply accompany adults into nature.

Very often, they lead the way.

Not because they know more than we do, but because they haven't yet forgotten how to be curious.

The next time you find yourself outdoors, try borrowing a child's pace for a little while.

Pause when something catches your eye.

Turn over a fallen leaf.

Watch an ant for longer than feels necessary.

Allow yourself to ask questions without needing immediate answers.

You may discover that the greatest gift children bring to a nature walk isn't their enthusiasm.

It's the gentle reminder that belonging begins with paying attention.

Continue Exploring

📍 Place: Family-Friendly Nature Trails (coming soon)

🚶 Activity: Family Nature Walks

🌿 Field Note: Geometer moths (coming soon)

📚 Resource: The Evolved Nest

Most of us can remember a place where we felt completely at ease.

Perhaps it was a patch of woodland behind your childhood home. A rocky shoreline where you searched for crabs. A meadow buzzing with grasshoppers, or a stream shallow enough to lie down in on a hot summer afternoon.

These places often stay with us long after we've left them behind.

For me, it was a small creek.

I spent hours there as a child, lying on my back in the cool water while sunlight filtered through the trees above. The current carried the sounds of the wider world away until all that remained was the murmur of water over stones, birdsong drifting through the canopy, and the feeling that I belonged exactly where I was.

I didn't have words like petrichor or komorebi then.

I simply knew I was home.

As adults, we often return to those places hoping to rediscover exactly what we remember.

Sometimes the landscape has changed.

Sometimes we have.

The stream of my childhood is smaller than I remembered. The water no longer runs quite as deeply over the stones, and I no longer throw myself into it without hesitation. With my adult eyes, I see someone's discarded beer cans upstream and sense that the water is not as pure as it was thirty-five years ago.

But returning taught me something unexpected.

The place itself wasn't what I had been searching for.

It was the feeling.

Many of us spend years trying to reconnect with nature, as though it were something separate from ourselves.

Perhaps a gentler way to think about it is this:

Nature isn't a place we visit.

It's a relationship we remember.

Every walk, every quiet moment beside a stream, every pause to watch a snail crossing a path is an opportunity to renew that relationship.

Not by recreating childhood exactly as it was, but by allowing ourselves to notice the world with some of the same curiosity we once carried so effortlessly.

If you have a place that still feels like home, visit it if you can.

If you no longer can, find another stream.

Another tree.

Another patch of moss.

The landscape doesn't need to be identical.

What matters is giving yourself permission to become fully present again.

Perhaps home was never a particular place after all.

Perhaps it was always a way of paying attention.

Continue Exploring

📍 Place: Solières Creek (coming soon)

🚶 Activity: Sit Spot (coming soon)

🌿 Field Note: Petrichor (coming soon)

📚 Resource: The Evolved Nest