‘Passing between the two depressions, I make my way toward the nook of woodland. Even a bright and crisp day such as this cannot deny the wood’s dark heart which is beguiling, rather than Hardy’s ‘darkling thrush’ analogy’
This morning I have set out to walk the river’s upper reaches – my route takes me to an ageing and characterful footbridge which, upon crossing, follows a path that winds its way to a beech and birch wood. Here, many an hour has passed me by listening to its numerous voices and taking in the fragrant air. I see familiar scenes along the way and although they inform my view their appearance can change with certain regularity due to shifting patterns of local weather or the onset of seasonal change.
Today I can see the horizon. This deep distance delineates the valley’s beginnings through to its meandering, watery conclusion. Pausing, I contemplate the immense and immeasurable potency of elementals that conspired to create what is now a tranquil, gently undulating idyll.
Taking a ramble off a well walked path offers, on occasion, a reveal of undiscovered possibilities. This occurrence of good fortune has just happened; whilst looking out over the valley I have noticed two rounding depressions; tumuli possibly? At the field’s end is another wood. Well, this is a presumption as I can only discern the tops of trees lying low and beyond it. I have just had a change of heart regarding my walk.
Passing between the two depressions, I make my way toward the nook of woodland. Even a bright and crisp day such as this cannot deny the wood’s dark heart which is beguiling, rather than Hardy’s ‘darkling thrush’ analogy. I have an urge for pushing through this inhospitable assembly of branches, twigs and thorny bine, the encroachment of which surely must proclaim at its edge both an end and a new beginning.
Walking towards the light, I pull at wayward thorns and various matter that have penetrated or attached themselves to my old but trusty Barbour. Leaving the wood behind, there is a brief walk passing fallow fields and two forgotten thatching or threshing barns and yet another steep bank awaits. Reaching the ridge-top leaves me breathless but not through exertion; there, contained within the trees, I see and hear the quietly beating heart of a winter’s pool.
Footfall is muffled by layer upon layer of decaying leaf matter as I haphazardly make my down to the pool’s margins. There is ice, and thick too, in parts. The trees and flora, albeit dormant, are all a-shimmer as if a dryad had sprinkled dust, full of magic and wonder over the scene; a glimpse into a hitherto unknown world of warming prospect come spring.
I will of course return and with regularity. It will be an utmost pleasure to see the pool offering up its secrets in the embrace of spring’s beginning. For now, I can only imagine the inhabitants of this pool, its flora and fauna. I shall just have to wait but needless to say I am refraining from thinking ‘tinca tinca’ but, again, clearly this is just not true.
I have made a note to self: remember always to consider a path never walked, for who knows what will be at the end?
Writing & Images – Pallenpool, Winter 2024
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