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THE FOREST

From amid dying rain clouds, tender golden sunlight peered through the dense evergreen canopy, gently bathing all it could reach in its placid radiance. The damp pine scented air clung to the trees, heavy and musty, deeply comforting in its familiarity. The birds seemed to approve of the let up in the dreary summer showers, chirping cheerfully and contentedly to each other, high up in the grizzled bows of mighty pines.

The rising temperature was perfect for walking in khakis shorts and a loose tee shirt. The evaporating raindrops drew away the growing heat of walking while slight gusts of wind, blustery remnants of the earlier rainstorm, stirred restlessly through the forest, cooling off the stresses of life and revitalising tiring minds.

The final destination was over 6 hours steady walking away, a cool pint and a rewarding, home-cooked pub meal awaited at the journeys end, but the peaceful walk alone was incentive enough to continue onward through the remaining woodland, rugged, windswept heath lands and quaint rural villages that seemingly stand alone, timeless and untouched by the chaotic world around.

The gravel path, covered in fallen pine needles and broken twigs presented little challenge to the heavy set walking boots that proudly bore the wear and tear of many previous expeditions into the wilderness with ragged edges and a slight squeak after each step. The path continued as far as the eye could see, twisting and turning until the forest dwelling vegetation seemingly enveloped it, far in the distance.

Bounding out merrily from a large rhododendron bush, startling the birds, with a stick grasped firmly in his mouth and a black tail wagging energetically, came the loyal companion. He dexterously made his way between patches of lush, green bracken, back, towards the track up ahead, dropping his prized, drool covered stick in the way and looking upwards expectantly. His four stout legs and muscular body dripped with mud and his brown eyes shone with delight as he waited eagerly. His long pink tong lolled idly out of one side of his jowls peppered in splinters and fragments from the stick, seemingly, he didn’t even notice. His keen stare swiftly focused into an almost trance like state of fixation upon his prize.

A once mighty colossus now lay, lifeless, tormented by the vicious claws of time. Its twisted branches had become gnarled and knotted into a mass of dry, brittle timber flanked by strange, shelf-like funguses and tufts of green moss and lichen. The lengthy roots, covered in dry chunks of clay-like soil and crawling with a multitude of minute insects, had been torn cleanly from the ground with seeming ease by an almighty force. They fanned outwards like the rays of the now vibrantly shining sun creating a shelter from wind and rain, perfect for an entrance to a rabbit warren.

The track descended deeper into the heart of the forest, winding erratically until it eventually approached a rickety old crossing that bridged the shores of one of the many tributaries of the Avon that criss-crossed the forest. The translucent brown water, shimmering as the sun caught the peaks of the ripples, was a far too inviting opportunity to pass up for a dog. He gleefully launched himself into the stream, lapping up water thirstily as he trotted over the slimy, silt covered pebbles. He pulled himself up the muddy bank on the other side with no difficulty, shook of the excess water and ran off again into the undergrowth to search for rabbits, proud of he newly achieved soggy smell.

Starring upwards through the narrow breach in the solid canopy, not a single cloud could be seen and the sun now penetrated throughout. Even the innermost sanctums of the ancient forest glowed softly with a golden haze. The clear blue sky above raised morale to some extent, as a further, lengthy stare downward towards the sizable ordinance survey map still didn’t surrender the current location. The mocking screech from a group of Crows echoed around logging alleys as they scornfully flew away from the boisterous hound, running recklessly from bush to bush. The decision to press onwards until a familiar landmark could be identified was made, the map was torturously folded up and stuffed into the light rucksack and the journey continued.

A few solitary beads of sweat were wiped away with a free hand as the other grasped a bottle of refreshing mineral water; a lengthy gulp was followed by a satisfied sigh. The ‘ Dragon Tree ’ was a well-known local marker, its scaly bark, queer roots and pollarded branches form, to those with a fertile imagination, what looks like a creature of fable. Its ‘knee’ made a comfortable seat for a well-deserved lunch break, consisting of a squashed cheese sandwich and a bruised apple. The Labrador Murphy gratefully accepted the stale crusts, in an instant he wolfed them down ferociously without a second thought.

The beautiful blossom tinted scent of honeysuckle embraced the clearing, stirred up by the breeze. Dappled light bathed the dell in gently swaying shadows, it was strangely thought provoking as well as deeply soothing. It conjured up memories of the happier days during an idyllic childhood that had been long forgotten over time, now replaced by a spiteful tormentor, gnawing at sanity.

The evergreen woodland was beginning to dissipate, the trees were a greater distance apart from each other and the hoof prints of horses, rarely seen deep inside the heavily forested areas, dotted the edges of small grimy puddles located in the centre of the widening paths. Up ahead a couple of crane flies danced gracefully with each other, their long spindly legs flailed wildly from their bodies during the airborne serenade. They flew off into the distance to discover a source of water for their new batch.

Ancient Oaks and Elms, distinctive characters of the old forest surrounded a shallow moat and a foundation embankment, overgrown with wild grasses and fern, the ruin of a hunting lodge, a long forgotten relic King Williams hunting expeditions for deer and wild boar. A few hundred feet away, the distinct perimeter of the forest could be seen from the mount, the squalid marshes and dry heath land, a difficult terrain to traverse, fringed the edges of the remaining trees and foliage.

Two distinct patches of sweat soaked the tee shirt under the shoulder straps of the backpack, the reddening skin beneath them was beginning to chafe. Out of the shade, the suns powerful and stifling heat could be wholly felt. The coarse, arid heather patches were like islands in a sea of fetid marshland, stepping between them was tough work in the soaring temperature, any indication of the morning rain was long gone. The only clouds to be seen now were those created by a slipping boot, loosening the dusty beaches that fringed the heather islands. Buzzing swamp gnats tickled and irritated, small seeds infiltrated walking boots and jagged tendrils reached out from the heather to scratch weary legs and tug at loosening laces.

Walking along the old road was reminiscent of a torturous daydream, the trees on the horizon, distorted by rippling waves of heat, never seemed to get any nearer and the decaying road was like a treadmill leading to nowhere. It augmented and reflected the heat and sapped vigour with masochistic ease, even Murphy lost interest in the various scents around him and slowed down to the walking pace of his weary master.

Next to the road the blackened ashes of a charcoal graveyard crunched solemnly underfoot. Contorting timber corpses, caught forever, writhing in fiery agony. Wretched rudiments of life had managed to endure in the centre of the killing field, they had cautiously broken through the shell of cinders to greet the sky, their brown green leaves groped around blindly for friends.

The smothering blanket of sun was torn away, leaving a mood of cold isolation, the sky darkened and the atmosphere grew heavy and menacing with surprising speed. Willow trees hung mournfully, a sudden gust of wind imbued them with satanic life, they seemed full of anger and foreboding. A horse sprung from a nearby copse, galloping from its own fears, its once vacant eyes flashed wildly with terror, its feet struck the ground thundering and churning up soil, it gave an exhausted snort and reared up in fright, turning around on the spot.

The earth was silently weeping, echoing spirits of life under threat from the relentless spectre of self-loathing mankind. A thin veil of despondent moisture covered the ferns and fragile birch tree saplings from the nearly transparent rain clouds above. The perspiration evaporated as quickly as it was deposited, leaving sticky residues and soaking socks. The grey mists of misery cleared quickly towards the end of the late afternoon, once again the golden sun broke through.

Murphy was drawn closer to safety by a tug on his lead as a cantankerous tractor, far older that its tender, roared past at an unwieldy speed, spluttering out black oily smoke from its rusty exhaust funnel. The rickety gate left behind it opened onto a footpath that crossed a few fields, densely covered in dry grasses. The smell of freshly mown lawns and stale manure drifted over the fields, it perfectly echoed the sounds of children’s laughing, dogs barking and The Archers to complete the portrait of the small rural community long before it could be seen.

Skeletal hedgerows were alive with carefree birds dancing into the early evening. A scar of effervescent orange slashed diagonally across the sky, powder crimson and lilac clouds drifted aimlessly and gently, basking in the ruby sunset. Golden yellow brushed across the lower skyline, intersected by the silhouettes of a row of tall popular trees next to the pub, their long gangling shadows sprawled over the road. The days heat was beginning to dissipate, the once gentle revitalizing breeze, now a blustery cold wind, quickened the laid-back pace somewhat.

Its thatched roof and the adjacent village green were a welcoming sight from a few hundred meters away, the legs of both of the exhausted travellers were nearing their limits. The Trusty servant was the hub of the village, A 16^th century barn conversion, that in recent years had been renovated for the growing tourist industry, despite this it had lost little of its charm and still held on doggedly to its rustic ancestry. The heavy oak door creaked softly as it was pulled open, a cloud of pipe and cigar smoke escaped from within the gloomy bar out of the entrance. A few of the grizzled locals looked up from their pints to see who it was but leisurely returned to their conversations after realising that the new arrival was a stranger. And his dog.

Liam Coxon Fantasy Sci-Fi War fantasy The Forrest