Rooks Bridge

Like a shallow moat defending a woodland fortress enclave, Mill Lawn brook surrounds a fat finger of dense woodland at Rooks Bridge. The brook now greatly reduced in flow still bubbles along happily; it looks clean, alive, the life blood of the land. The woodland at the down stream end is filled with debris, fallen branches, toppled trees and the detritus of the wet winter forest laid strewn about, chaos, amongst this maelstrom of wood, shrubs, some in flower, filled the under story; the result was a dense, close and intense wood, which appears to have depth beyond itself.  Amongst the trunks and debris a clump of bright green leafs stands out as unusual, it's the Western Skunk Cabbage, the bight yellow flower has been replaced by large leafs. As we walked along animal paths that dodged and weaved between the obstacles, the woods opened up slightly and the debris subsided, until the wood opened enough to create spaces, the peripheries still dense; in the center of the largest space a old Oak, 250 years or more. There is no sign of human presence here in this wood, no foot prints, no paths other than those of the woodland inhabitants, few would walk here and I felt lucky to be one who did. Beyond the wood the brook runs through Mill Lawn valley, shallow as it is, through deeply cut meanders. The sun is getting low, the ponies are active, individuals and pairs joined together forming small groups, then merging to a herd which galloped through the valley towards Red Rise Hill, like a cavalry column minus their mounts; we saw them later, their numbers swollen, they headed for the Old Enclosure as night crept in from the East.