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.