I turned 27 over the holidays. The day after Christmas. (Insert annual quip about being born the same say as the dissolution of the Soviet Union.)
I’m not really a fan of my birthday. Complicated feelings about it as an adopted kid. More a day of diffuse grief than elation.
Anyway, when not comatose on some form of furniture, Christmas and my birthday are times for walking. Here are some pictures from our picturesque and somewhat melancholy traipses through the Yorkshire and Derbyshire hills.
New Years’ Resolution: more photos on Xenogothic in 2019.
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