Ocknell woods

Cross plain and adjacent to the airfield remains, plantation lays at the head of Highland Water, high on this central plateau of the forest. Gnarled Oaks and Beech mingle with mature Holly, forming a mature open woodland; plantation planted in 1768 it is one of the older plantations in the forest. From its dells nestled amongst the trees, three rivulets emerge from boggy ground, coming together to form the nucleus of Highland water, shortly before it disappears through a tunnel under the A31 at The wind blew an icy chill through the land, high on StoneyOcknellOcknellOcknell arch. The woods appeared in some way forbidding, dark and sinister in the low grey winter light that bathed them in flat lustre; set snugly in a valley, they hold the moisture, hold it well, creating damp, dank and sodden woodland. An unwelcome feeling dwelt amongst trees today; I don't know if it were the projection of my own low mood or the forest, but an uneasy feeling prevailed. Usually at ease with the woods, I felt skittish, on edge, the trees appeared strange and unusual, unlike their kin in other woods, the older trees struck one as twisted and haunted. Its places too had an eerie feel, the paths, the glades, the tracks that disappeared in to the gloom, all were imbued with a curious glamour as if a past was being hidden. I was glad to be through them, which is not a common feeling for me; I found distraction though, in tracing the path of the infant Highland Water, although this too seemed more difficult than similar searches. What was being concealed? Ocknell didn't want to give up anything, it cloaked its true self, kept its secrets hidden; maybe for another day.

Stoney Cross

Drawn back to the open space of Stoney Cross, after Mondays walk, I found it desolate on this grey winters day. I sought to investigate further some of the remains of the World War Two airfield, if any survive. One of the biggest airfields in the forest, it is now reduced to a shadow of its former glory; build in 1942 and mothballed to care and maintenance in 1946, it saw use both as an RAF base and USAF base, with fighters, bombers and transport aircraft all frequently stationed on this open heath. After years of neglect the runways were broken up for building aggregates in three phases, 1966, 199o and 2000; until recent years the majority of the, taxi ways, access roads and dispersal areas remained, unfortunately due to short-sightedness most of these have now been removed , with only fragments lingering. The final wartime structure to be removed was the water tower in 2004. All the World War Two airfields in the forest have now been destroyed, as an Archaeologist, I morn, what I see as, the wanton neglect and destruction of our finite Archaeological, historical and cultural record. Looking carefully you can still see the imprint of these disappeared features, the concrete removed, the void remaining creates a contoured plan of the airfield, like looking at a sonar image. A road runs across Stoney Cross plain following the edge of the main runway (25/07, 2000 x 50 yards), utilising it as a foundation; alongside this road you will still see the runway light mountings, set about 10m apart in new money; crossing the road and the void of the remaining 45 yards of runway, you can see the correspondingly light mounts, access trunking and other contemporary features. The lights, glass smashed or taken, inners long ago removed, now all that endures are the metal mounts set into their concrete bases; many of these have plants growing from them. Concrete and brick scatters among the brambles and gorse surrounding the dispersal areas are all that remain of ancillary buildings and shelters, probably 'Stanton shelters', commonly found associated with other forest airfields. Off the second runway (33/15, 1520 x 50 yards), part of the old dispersal bay network is now used by the forestry commission as a touring park, here the concrete track ways and pans, the securing rings, other features endure. There is much more to investigate, the area of Stoney Cross is immense.

Golden brown

The forest is all browns and oranges now, few vestiges of last years cycle remain, last seasons ferns, bowed by the winds and rain, duled heathers and languid grasses furnish the heaths with a drab hue; the trees,all damp, lichen covered, strangely waxy looking, greasy to touch and mottled where the water has soaked the bark to the point of discolouring it, completes this melancholy view. The landscape is drained of nearly all bright vivid colour, punctuated only seldomly by the vibrant green of a grassy tree covered knoll. The dank under foot and with a dark, grey and water laden sky over head, only led to accentuate the point. Not much may appear to happen out here in the winter, although appearances can be deceiving and I'm sure, unseen and probably done with less intensity, activity continues. Look and listen hard enough and you'll see it or hear it, life's merely moving very slowly; making it harder to perceive, saving energy. The ponies persist, mainly now amongst the shelter of the woods, even though small groups of ponies do still inhabit the isolated open heath, despite experiencing the full force of the elements, they endure. Deer too, hurry through the landscape, between clumps of trees and shrubs, skirting the woodland and brooks; several groups today, one substantial. Unseen birds pass the occasional haunting call amidst the mist filled woods, today appearing deeply shrouded in mystery. Red rise shade brook, running along the border of these mysterious woods, flows high, not breaching its banks, yet running near capacity; seasonal creeklets and gullies feed it, swell it, on its passage to the sea. Broad in places, now that all its gravel beds and banks are submerged; compared to its usual meekness, it cuts quite a swathe through the woodland fringe. As it passed the mature oak trees who silently flank its banks, they cast their eerie portrait into the peat stained waters passing by, waters which reflected those mirrored images up into the sky.

Tangerine dream

It was all orange!

Hollywood

I noticed a knoll I hadn't appreciated before, out amidst the heath, a mound of green, furnished with shiny dark green topped Holly trees. The green mound shone in the dull hues of the wintering heathers and last seasons ferns, soft and verdant, a mix of tough, short grasses and mosses, carpeting the floor of the Holly knoll; Holly trees, grey and waxy in complexion, some with a rusty tinge, formed a regal crown. Around it, a moat of bog, cotton grasses, sedges, a few reeds and the multicoloured sponginess which is sphagnum moss; the ground yielded easily when trodden on, at one point I put a foot wrong, not paying attention to the signs and found myself, one foot on a tussock and one foot on, what can only be compared too, the skin on custard. This sphagnum covered custard skin extended for several meters, a threatening obstacle; it's easy to become complaisant, in a place that appears tamed, yet still harbours elements of mystery and wilderness. As for the knoll, I'll visit again when the spring sun is shining; it felt a good place for a sit down.

Fritham

The Northern part of the forest, North of the central high plateaus, frequently appears to experience appreciably different weather conditions to that of the Southern sections laying closer to the coast. Ice still remains present, if only a thin shadow of its former depth and strength, on puddles and crusting the fringes of creeklets; crossing an area of shaded grassland, the ground noticeably crunched underfoot and crazily glazed patterns grace the filigree of thin water courses sweeping down Freeworms Hill to join Dockens Water. On top of Fritham Plain, Green pond was completely capped by a thin layer of transparent ice; the views all around are breath taking. Into Amberwood enclosure, planted in 1817, tall Oaks, straight and strong, well maintained over time, thinned to create a spacious and open woodland, probably planted with the navy in mind; that use has long gone. Through one of the many dells, Latchmore Brook bubbles away on its journey to join the ancient Westward marked of the forest, The River Avon; but for now is content to enjoy its odyssey through this watery track with the murmured music of running water; mesmerizing, relaxing, restorative, the veins of the land, carrying the life giving liquid of life. Turning to return we made our way through Sloden enclosure, a older plantation planted in 1775, which has been decimated and dissected during the mid 20th century when the earlier Oak plantation had been replace with blocks of Spruce, Larch and Pine to create a tapestry of needle bearing tree amongst the older deciduous backdrop. Back on Fritham plain, even so early in the afternoon, the sky was darkening as the sun, never high, began its decent into the West.

The final ascent took us near the crumbling concrete reminders of a fore gone age; dispersal stands for military aircraft, the anchor points still visible amongst the creeping mosses and bramble, taxi ways, the remains of shelters and brick scatters glimpsed through gorse and thicket; the remains of Stoney Cross airfield. Sadly now, for the most part, the remaining reminders have been relegated to the shadows of where these features were. For, the forestry commission, in an act of shortsightedness, have systematically removed the majority of physical remains relating to the airfield, runways, shelters, hangers, dispersal stands and a plethora of other monuments,all gone; not just here, but at every Second World War airfields in the forest. An historical and archaeological crime.

Boxing day

I dragged 3, once woodland pixie folk children, now lured away by the glamour of dancing pixels as supplied by modern technology, namely the heXbox360, around the forest. The first half hour passed in a haze of complaints, goads and inflammatory remarks, all designed to cause me to anger and to turn back, ending their torturous walk and returning them to the comfort of their virtual lives, lived on the battlefields of an ethernet world. I bit once, but used the frustration raised to bolster my resolve and strengthen my desire to march these fallen woodland warriors across the land; I found my pace and off we went, marching in silence across the countryside.

The land is wet under foot, the frost of recent weeks have melted away leaving sodden ground, even on the higher terrain this moisture persists; the heathers and grasses are slicked in dewy dampness which transfers to your legs with ease. The skies were leaden, grey, heavy and clung to the horizon as if lethargy had gripped them and they were unable to take flight. We crossed the slightly swollen, Blackensford Brook, which will later become Black Water, where two streams join and the brook begins proper. Then we break cover,out of the enclosed woodland of North Oakey Enclosure making our way up hill to Sandy Ridge. On Sandy Ridge you can see up to the valleys of Bratley Water and Backley Bottom, headwaters of those two streamletts which feed Blackensford Brook. The forest air was cool, the land was quiet and still, yet the place felt welcoming.

After 40min walking at a fair pace, the silence was broken by the sparks of reasonable conversation, stayed and cold at first, later becoming more warm and convivial as guards were dropped and normal discourse was resumed; one though remained entrenched in teenage attitude, unable or unwilling to compromise. Once we walked in joy across these lands, laughing and wondering at the world around us, all has changed now...maybe as the wheel turns, new days of joyful walking will return. By now we were on the high ground of Backley Holms, a grassy lawn popular with the ponies; soon we turned and began back towards Mark Ash; through Backley Enclosure, planted in 1829 and its tall slender straight oaks, so uniformly planted.

As the final assault on Pound Hill, the last hill, was upon us, murmurings of approval and talk of enjoyment where muted, apologies for unreasonable attitudes were made and a glimmer of light was possibly glimpsed by one father, tired of the fighting associated with teens.

Part of the Winter Solstice at Stonehenge

Stonehenge

Sistere, then the wheel turns and the cycle begins again, the old sun dies and the sun is born a new, the days grow longer as the sun grows stronger, light will return to bathe the land; by seed and stem, by bud and bloom, the fecundity of the earth will be renewed.

The stones were dusted in snow, the grass too had a dusting, enough to create a traditional wintry scene, the ground was frozen and glass like, the air was chilled and icy mists clung to the people and stones alike as they hung low over the land; 200 or 300 people, willingly, happily, joyfully, braved these conditions to gather at Stonehenge in order to welcome the new sun. When the powers that control this most sacred of sites, decreed we could access, the swelling band cheerfully processed to the stones, with the 'Dolmen Grove' beating drums at their head. The ceremony, led by Rollo went well, as always, and was enjoyed by all. Afterwards, folk milled around the stones, making their own personal invocations, meeting friends, examining with awe the majestic megaliths or simply absorbing the atmosphere of a site, a place in the landscape, with a continuity of use and reverence stretching back some 10,000 years into the Mesolithic, when groups of hunter gatherers, still nomadic, erected totems; the post holes of which lay to the North of the stones. The nature and content of the ceremonies may well have changed; but the motivation and reverence of those attending remains the same, and the significance of this place in the landscape endures.

May there be peace throughout the world, so mote it be.

Solstice

It was the winter solstice today; the birth of the new sun, although you wouldn't know it, as the sky was full of clouds the poured forth rain all day. Maybe it was the waters associated with birth?

2009 Winter Solstice card

Sun day

The forest was bathed in radiant sun light, a last burst of lustrous luminescence of the waning old sun; tomorrow the new will be born and the cycle will begin again. Low in the sky, hugging the horizon and pale, the old sun shone with a soft orange glow that illuminated the land and giving the place a comfortable feel; a stark contrast to the hard frost still evident on and in the ground. Water escaping from the ground had hardened on contact with the air, more water emerged to cover the former and then froze itself, this cycle continued until layered cascades of frigid glaze had formed over the hillside; tough and impenetrable, glistening amongst the long shadows of trees in low light. The forest has really shut down now, little moves through the land, ponies of course still meander, searching for unfrozen tufts around the heathers and gorse, the occasional bird can be heard to sing, but scarcely anything else stirs. The Celtic calender contains 5 dead days; these are they. Soon the wheel of the world, of the seasons, of life, will turn and the cycle begin a new. For now though peace has dominion.

Frosty creeks

The light frost, present in the woods this week, crisping the grasses, dusting the gorse and capping the puddles with a crystal glaze, had matured to become hard frost. The ground tough under foot, ice reaching deep into the land; once thin ice on puddles, easy to break through, had become thick and unbreakable; even the thin creeklets had succumbed, now adorned by crazy patterned icy fringes, covering the entirety of its span in stretches. Navigating thin creeklets, forming on the brow of the higher heathland plateaus of Ocknell and Bratley plains, we made our way down a gentle valley; like mercury racing to join the whole, these shining wet paths hastened onward until they formed the nucleus of a creek proper. Still being joined by its kin this infant creek grew as it snaked through the icy landscape, amongst gravel beds and banks, trees and stumps. The gravels usually easy to scatter as you walked through them, today had become concreted by frost, firm, immovable, abrasive. Slowly the creek found itself, growing deeper, more sure of its course, confident in the path it was taking and why; bubbling and burbling as it travelled, it disappeared into denser woodland, later to become Linford Brook.

We made our way through thinning plantations where lumberjacks had been at work removing mature Pines, leaving the deciduous trees, returning the landscape to its natural heathland/woodland mix. The Milkham enclosure was originally enclosed in 1861, although like many others saw some of its Oaks, beeches and Chestnuts removed during the 60's in order to plant Pine; the deciduous trees planted in the 1800's became redundant with the development of steel vessels, no longer needed by the royal or merchant navies, Pine were planted for profit. With the Pine gone its good to see the land again.

Morning glory

Barking mad

Wilverley enclosure was originally enclosed and planted in 1809 mainly with Oak, Beech and Chestnut and although much of the original enclosure has been removed to be then replanted with pines, some planted in close groups. These groups of closely planted coniferous trees are dark and, on the whole, lifeless with sterile floors, where little grows, with the exception of small isolated clearings where trees had failed, died and fallen. Here lush mosses thrive in rare pockets of light, wild plants and ferns turn these spaces into oasis's of green. Occasionally amongst the darkness one comes across a tall mature deciduous tree, a remnant of the older enclosure, where wildlife enjoys a natural haven in an unnatural environment; of course, all the planted enclosures are technically unnatural, although, the tightly planted pines stand out as little dwells, thrives or enjoys their shade.

Around the fringes and in pockets, some substantial, Wilverley still retains some majestic specimens of deciduous trees. Such as this giant Chestnut tree with its mesmerizing criss cross patterned bark. Stark contrast to the dark depths which lay behind it.

Naked man

On a high desolate heathland plain, with views both towards the coast and in to the hinterland of the forest, can be found the unassuming remnant of a tree, species uncertain, weathered, gnarled and decaying, protected by a wooden fence, all that remains of mighty tree whose large strong branches were used to hang highwaymen and smugglers; The Naked Man. Sighted along side what was once a major forest road, connecting Brockenhurst and Burley, it has all but disappeared and has probably fallen from the memory of many, as would the road itself, only occasional fragments of tarmac now enduring. In times past the forest would have been popular with both highwaymen and smugglers, as its wild nature and infrequent settlements made it ideal for hiding out and hiding contraband; there are plenty of tales of criminal activity, perpetrated by rich and poor alike. The name 'the naked man' conjures up quite horrible images of miscreants left decaying amongst the branches, naked, alone in death; surely a deterrent.

The heathland was cold this morning, -3 in fact, the ground firm, the grasses crisp under foot, the ice on the puddles not strong enough to take your weight, but getting there. What had been mud was now frozen solid, freezing the tracks of animal and people alike and making walking on the afore mentioned surfaces uncomfortable. As the sun rose it cast a beautiful orange hue across the landscape, being particularly noticeable on the trees. All of a sudden a small herd of 12, various coloured, ponies galloped out of nowhere, whinnying and snorting as they passed; no sign of what had caused them to hurry past was apparent, although they appeared to be travelling with purpose. Maybe they too were enjoying the beautiful winter sunrise.

Strafe

The damp clung, a change from yesterdays crisp cold, the ground deep in places with standing water common in this part of the forest. Here on Northern part of the forest the heathland is high, cut by water logged valleys and gullies and littered with craters filled with pools of water, some deep, the remnants of human activity. Not farming, nor mineral extraction, rather the preparation for making war; for here, the land was used as a range by the RAF during world war 2 and is besmirched with the remains of their activities. What you see is only a trifle of what there was; there were, mock airfields, a mock battleship, submarine pens and numerous target ranges. Much was removed post war, when the area, no longer needed, was returned to public hand and more removed in recent years, by an unimaginative and short sighted forestry commission. Still, if you search amongst the heathers you'd be surprised at what you'd find.

Walking along the Southern fringe of what was the 'Ashley Ranges' we first passed linear scatters of brick work and a group of three Bronze Age burial mounds, which had been cut into possibly to represent emplacements; these unassuming scatters of brick denoted brick lined trenches, similar to those used by the Germans along the 'Atlantic Wall', they had been filled with dummy soldiers and were then strafed using various munitions to ascertain the most effective weapons to kill or wound the as many enemy as possible. Further on, within an area bound by a low bank and shallow ditch, were several large craters, now filled with water, along with a slit trench; there were possibly more, we didn't investigate. Finally before turning into Island Thorns Enclosure, and our return path, beyond the craters was a small brick structure; an world war 2 observation shelter, if you didn't know about the area you'd be lost as to why it was there; looking more like a bus shelter, lonely and isolated it appears out of place as well as being out of time.

Red sky in the morning

The heathland, so sodden and saturated of late, today took on a fresh new crispy aspect; the surface softly crunching under foot as you walked through the ghostly grasses and heathers, dusted white with a gentle frost. The sky had an orange red hue as the sun slowly rose over and through the clouds which hugged the horizon. 'Red sky in the morning, Shepperd's warning', that's how the old saying goes, and today the red sky was warning of the cold to come. Hardy ponies, how they do it I just don't know, were searching under the edges of the heather clumps and gorse stands for succulent green grass protected from the frost by their twiggy blankets.

Mornings like this remind me why it's worth making the effort to get up early and getting out to the forest in order to experience the beauty of natures waking.

Fletchers

Fletchers Thorns smelt damp and earthy; the smell of winters decay and the return to soil for natures glory. Nearby the low branches of trees and shrubs have become home to lichens, the ground sodden leaf litter and mosses, hidden below fallen bracken, brown and crisp at the end of its season. How clear the wood looked, an Oak plantation planted in 1829, regularly spaced maturing trees below which holly and self seeded Oaks and other species have burgeoned. The name 'Fletchers Thorns' may refer to the use of Black Thorn by bowyers to produce arrows; a few Black Thorns remain, although none look suitable for arrow making, it could be though, that prior to the plantation, Thorns flourished on this site. Walking with ease I remembered trying to navigate my way through these woods when the bracken was chest high, higher in places, obscuring your path, providing perfect cover for obstacles; shallow ditches, fallen boughs and natures barbed wire...brambles. As the slope of the enclosure descended the woodland became wetter, criss crossed by ditches, old tracks and occasional water courses, down to a stream.

Fletcher Water, the lower section of Black Water, itself a later section of Bratley Water which emerges from the high Central heathlands, runs along one fringe of the enclosure. A broad and on the whole shallow stream, with some deeper bends and pits in the river bed caused by water negotiating obstructions of fallen trees and conglomerations of woodland detritus. Deep in the forest, meandering slowly, the atmosphere here is damp, lush ferns, splendid examples, grow along the stream banks and cover the boughs of dislodged trees which now over hang the waters; giving a tropical even primeval feel.

The cold bit today, not the coldest day we've had, but the damp in the air, added to the chill wind, scoured any exposed skin when you broke the cover of trees; which I did, leaving Fletcher Thorns to cross the lawns of Fletcher Green and Ober Heath.

Moorish

The winter sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows as it crossed the open heathland, entering the woods at an acute angle. The forest had yoyo'd again and the transformation from yesterdays quiet stillness was apparent. The woods were alive again, awake again; squirrels scampered through the leaf litter, searching for hidden treasures, woolly horses made the most of the sun and grazed in its warming rays, whilst deer were abundant, groups of 2 or 3 startled by our presence turned white tail and bounced away, Pepe la Pew style. A large herd emerged from the woodland fringe, 3 majestic stags at its head, the group paused to sniff the air before heading for open heathland at speed. The woods here are old, ancient most probably, older than the enclosures that surround them; never enclosed themselves they retain an air of wild wood, you can feel it. Here large mature Oaks, thick trunked and plated, have grown tall and straight as they've strived for the sun, only branching out at the crown, the kings of the wood. Walking in these pockets of ancient woodland is walking through time, or rather through timelessness, a sense of continuity in a world of flux.

Tanks for the memory

An icy cold has fallen and the forest has replied with the stalwart resolution of experience; winters have come and gone, the land enjoys the rest and doesn't fear the frigid embrace of Jack Frost. Quiet though, the infrequent sounds of bird song are restricted to the sporadic chirps of the remaining few brave inhabitants of the canopy. Little stirs today, no horses, no deer, not even the squirrels are to be seen, all hunkered down, reserving their strength for what they knows to come. Moving through the mature Oaks and Beeches of the Old enclosure, where the majesty of the wooden leviathans (many over 300 years old) who tower over you is tangible; towards Black Water in the valley beyond.

The ground now was covered in heavy vehicle tracks, laid down long ago; I'd seen tracks like these before and astonishingly they are tank tracks created during exercises during World War Two. In 1943 huge numbers of Churchill tanks roamed the countryside. It's easy to imagine these tanks lumbering trough the woods between the large wooden hulks, every now and again converging where access dictated, before dispersing and moving on. A stately Beech at the top of the rise is marked by a large arrow shaped scar carved in its trunk; assuming by the appearance of the scar, that it's contemporaneous with the nearby tracks; presumably it used as a marker. The path of the tracks continue down from the rise, sweeping East as they approach Black Water; a small stream, although still a formidable obstacle to a tank, before being truncated by a 1960's plantation.

Here Black Water flows quietly through open Oak woods, few obstructions hinder it, allowing its lightly peat stained waters to glide gracefully by. The Black Water river gravels are unusual in this stretch, if recorded on a context sheet they would be: flint 90%, clay 10%, regular, rounded to sub angular, 60% 5mm to 20mm, 30% 20mm to 40mm, 10% 40mm>. Other streams have far less regular gravels, both in size and shape. I'm fond of this stream, often stopping on its gravel banks to build small fires and rest a while. Today though, it wasn't I that was creating smoke in the woods. Forestry types were in action nearby, you could hear the buzz of their chainsaws in the distance; shortly afterwards the sweet smell of wood smoke filtered slowly through the trees; shortly followed by light smoke, its movement barely discernible in the stillness. After a few moments though, the smoke became heavier, dense, no longer sweet smelling but over powering and acrid; rapidly it filled the shallow valley. I'm no kipper; t'wos time to move on ... smokin! Later, looking back from the ridge the smoke had now engulfed the wooded valley completely, hanging motionlessly on the windless late afternoon air. Returning, the sun was finally bidding farewell for the day, disappearing beyond the low cloud that had begun by topping the horizon and was now blanketing the entire sky. A good day.

Lichen what I see

The forest was bathed in dazzling sunlight, as if it were spring; a radiant sun shone through a near clear blue sky, sending beams shooting through the canopy casting shadows and suffusing the woods in bright splendour. Starting on the high open heathland we made our way towards the edge of plateau and hillside that would lead to the woodland below; we walked through an expanse of heather between which the surface was covered in lichens and mosses. The clumps of mosses and lichens, multi layered and of abundant varieties, appeared vibrantly coloured amongst the heathers in their winter cloths and extended across the flat expanse in all directions bringing this open winter landscape, asleep on the whole, to life. Occasional flowering gorse bushed added to the colour and texture of the scene whilst deer brought animation as they bounced their way across this panorama.

This tundra like surface continued until the base of the slope, the lichens becoming scarcer as the heathland gave way to woodland fringed by a small creek, shallow and broad for its size. Following the insubstantial creek as it became narrower and deeper before disappearing in to the darker confines of a pine plantation. We walked on through the woods, passed massive oaks that rose majestically to create high cathedral styled canopies spreading dappled light across the boscage. Gnarly holly trees, gnawed and disfigured by hungry ponies, filled the under story with distorted forms. On past the illustrated tree, its patterned surfaces dulled by the damp of recent days, before, visors down, we emerged into the open and dazzling light and expansive heathland. Up, back onto the plateau where we were reacquainted with the fantastic vista over the forest afforded us by height and the clarity of the day; the view transcending county boundaries.

Black tar rivers

The roads were under 20 or 30 cm of water in places as we travelled to the forest; journeying along black tar rivers. The sky was clear now and the light from the low Sun through the trees, clean and bright, brought the sleeping woods temporarily back to life. I'd come this way to visit another outstanding tree, not a large tree like many of the other notable trees frequently found in the forest; but a strangely covered example adorned in natural patterns ...the illustrated tree. Said tree stands out from its neighbours in all ways; it is old, wizened, bark less on the whole and bereft of leaves for many a season I'd guess. Still though, striking to behold. It appears as if dropped into its position in the woods, rather than naturally occurring there, I wondered what it must have looked like when vibrant and verdant and how and why it had become patterned in the way it has.

We passed a few creeks and it good to see the water levels high in this part of the forest; the brooks and creeks over this way (North Western area) are often bereft of water, often dry in the summer and slow flowing even during the winter. Now though, they raced through the land, fed by transient creeks flowing through the woodland from the hills beyond. The life blood of the land.

Nighty night

Twilight in the forest is filled with half seen shapes, indistinguishable in the middle distance of the fading day, fleeting between shrub and tree, accompanied by strange sounds emanating from unseen quarters. Tricks of the fading light or something more? As the Sun finally bids farewell to the forest and disappears below the western horizon, the wandering mind taps into a ancient part of the brain. Although you're not consciously scared or concerned by the increasing dark of oncoming night, shivers rise up from your stomach, pulse up your spine and rush your head, overwhelming rationality; we are not naturally nocturnal creatures and something primal was telling me so. A part of my brain had been activated, an old programme from a time when the forest and the dark were the unknown, filled with mythical beasts and mystery; when your instinct told you to be aware and be elsewhere. It took all my cognitive power to stop myself from surrendering to the irrational fears that stalk the edges of my perception and fringes of my mind. As I made my way through the woodland fringe my eyes strained to focus on what wasn't there, like chasing those squiggly lines which float around ones peripheral vision. We seem to possess the pointless skill, or on the surface what appears a pointless skill, of freaking ourselves out; why do we do it?

Weirdly, even looking at the picture I've just attached has sent shivers racing up my spine; as if I'm expecting a phantom to appear in or from behind the tree.

Ohree

Passing the area of woodland where the world war two graffiti tree was I thought I'd have another look. What I hadn't noticed on my last visit was the size of the '1944' tree, considering the carvings are 65 years old the tree doesn't appear to be that old or have grown that much; the letters haven't stretched or deformed much at all. On a nearby tree there is further graffiti, which I hadn't noticed last time. This tree is much larger and the graffiti on it is deformed by the trees growth, one piece so mutated it was illegible and yet the carving appear to be contemporaneous with each other. The new piece says 'Ohree i 194(4)' or the h could be a k and as for the second 4 it was almost obliterated, as I said the trees expansion has distorted the letters and figures. It could be that the trees are not contemporaneous as are the whittling, that would be the rational explanation, but following my previous musings I wondered if the trees growth, in some magical way, represented the men's destinies and that one had fallen in battle and the other had survived the war and continued to grow as did his corresponding tree. The forest can be a strange place. Had the fellows whose knife work adorns the wood been on R&R or on picket duty, the track nearby would have been a busy byway during the war when 10's of thousands, and closer to D Day 100's of thousands of military personnel made the forest their home. I'll never know.

As I walked on through the woods they were quieter than they had been of late, there was an eerie still .... no birds were singing, or at least very few and with their volumes turned right down. Moving on I became aware of all manner of birds throughout the woodland, not in the trees though, all on the ground, milling about. My entrance disturbed them and soon the wood filled with birds, big and small, rising to the spindly branches all that remain of the canopy; when settled, they began to chatter and wood filled again with song. What was that about? Why had they all been on the ground?

Gnaw

If you've watched 'Band of Brothers' you'll understand what I mean when I say that, the woods today appeared drained of colour in the way that that series was filmed; all the intensity of colour was gone, drained and matt. Along the woodland fringe adjoining the stream the woolly horses in their winter attire were at the Holly trees again. I don't know what nutritional or medicinal benefit they get from the bark but they appear to like it. You frequently see trees with fresh or healing gnaw marks, where tough horse teeth have removed the fleshy bark; the Holly trees don't seem to suffer too badly from these attacks, you see some very mature trees which have been harvested by horses over many years.

As I got closer to the nearby waterway I saw the Egret again, he (or she) has been a frequent visitor to this stretch of stream for some time now. On the old maps of the area the brooks and streams were marked as fish able and an old guy told me once of regularly landing Brown Trout from forest streams. Now days you see fry and the occasional small Trout but nothing for the table, well, I've not seen a dinner fish; not alive that is, last winter saw a big full grown Sea Trout (dead) right up in the upper reaches of a woodland stream. I believe that all ordinary Brown Trout, when exposed to the sea become Sea Trout and maybe this fish was returning to the gravelly reaches of it's home stream to spawn; that would be a welcome healthy sign of the forest streams fecundity.

Meet and greet

Where ever you look you'll see many wonderful trees in the forest, although some, some just have that something else; it can't be articulated properly, it's something you can't put your finger on, they merely stand out from their associates. I visited such a tree today. It's located in an area of the forest I don't frequently roam, in the valley which feeds the upper reaches of Highland Water; in fact said creek, as it is at this point, is only a stones throw away. The tree is a majestic Oak of some age, the kings of the forest, and is not alone; there are several other large specimens nearby. Although, the form of this particular tree stands out from the others. The mighty Oak has a sturdy trunk at its base, with all manner of gnarly growths on it, as well as a number of large bracket fungi; as you look up the tree you'll see a myriad of crazy branches radiating off in all directs, all branches about the same size. The branches have taken on a form somewhat akin to a Corkscrew Hazel; it is a beautiful tree. Sadly though its condition appears to have deteriorated since last I wandered this way; as have many of the other older trees in the locale. Whether this is the case or just my perception I'm not sure; still, hopefully it will be there for many years to come. Hail and well met.