A beautiful day; the sun shines in an almost clear sky; but cold, an icy breeze cuts through me as we make our way from Picket Post across Handy Cross Plain and down amongst the heather into Pinnick wood and the illustrated tree. A special place; a part of the forest which feels ancient; wild wood.
I can hear a tractor in the woods, unusual, and see its recent tracks winding between the trees; it comes into view, weaving and dodging, a small old tractor, on board a guy collecting wood and feeding his ponies. We exchange greetings, the tractor stops and we strike up a conversation. The guy is a retired civil engineer and independent archaeologist; we have plenty to talk about and our conversation wanders over many topics. There is a new archaeological group being formed and the guy takes my email and says I should attend the next meeting. When we part I have the strangest feeling that the forest has had a hand in our meeting, especially taking place at that spot, and that through the woods I'm being encouraged to become myself again; old paths re found and sparks ignited. Another life is calling me, and archaeology was/is part of that life.
The woods feel welcoming and I feel at home. We make our way to Linford Brook; the brook bubbles along, sparkling in the now warmish sun. The trees enjoy the the sun and appear to stretch upwards to greet it. At an ancient round pound on the fringe of Pinnick wood, ponies have gathered; maybe a dozen or so, many more can be seen milling about. Is it a meeting? A pony in the group whinnies and suddenly the woods and heath fill with the sound of galloping hooves, as from all directions ponies can be seen converging at speed. We are amongst a few grazing ponies, spooked by hooves behind them they bolt, and joined the others dash by us towards the pound and the gathering, an intense moment. A strange occurrence. It's a full moon and things are afoot.
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