Of Country Lanes & Wooded Aisles
What is it about a wooded country lane on a warm, still morning? Perhaps it calls to that part of us that craves something new and familiar all at once. Fool vibes.
This particular lane, crowded on each side by hawthorn and rhododendrons, blooming with flowers led to a woods. The cotton wool fluff from goat willow catching the gentle breeze, wafting across the road, giving the scene an ethereal feel, the crowded sweet-scented mayflowers against the carnival colour of the rhododendron set, dressing at its finest. Not my usual haunt this time but a local one nonetheless, a ten-minute drive from my home.
There’s something about the woods at this time of year that just makes you feel good. It’s a liminal time, when spring is all but done and summer’s breath kisses the air. Later on, in the dog days of summer, it will feel different again. If it’s really dry, the younger trees will die back, an early autumn as the ferns too crisp in the powerful sun. Now though, everything is verdant, everything alive. The green of a woodland newly awakened is a magnificent thing, bedecked in the jewels of blooming flowers; the dusky pinks of campion and herb Robert, the bright yellow of buttercups and the tiny blue forget-me-nots that float atop the long grass of the verge. The mating game of nature continues as damson flies swarm, seemingly hanging in mid-air, clouds of turquoise; birds tend chicks and fledglings.
Further up the path, some movement draws the eye. Two birds having a dust bath. But as we approach, one flies away and we realise something is wrong. I bend closer. It’s a tiny fledgling, a song bird perhaps, though I cannot identify the species, the markings unclear, a mix of adult and fluffy chick feathers. It lay prone and still, its foot trapped beneath a piece of bark. Carefully, with little finger, I move the wood chip, such a small thing itself. When I cast it aside, the young bird flutters up on jerky wings and disappears into the underbrush, its parent swooping down from a close by elder tree to follow it into the safety of bramble and nettle.
The elder tree too is about to bloom, one of my favourite trees. The elder is an interesting tree in terms of the folklore surrounding it and has mixed meaning. Some stories tell of the tree being benevolent and offering protection. In some parts of the UK, it was believed that planting a rowan (mountain ash) by the front of the property and an elder at the back would bring good fortune and ward off the bad. In truth, this may have some credence in the fact that the elder does have fly repelling properties. For much the same reason, bunches of elder were hung in stables and cattle sheds to ward off negativity and evil. Here, though, she just simply is, a living and integral part of this place.
Further along, a little deeper, the trees begin to thin and we enter a grove. This one belongs to the dead. Amid the young trees and wildflowers, mounds of earth are the only sign that the dead rest here. It is a beautiful space, quiet and peaceful.
Does it seem too macabre to discuss the dead on such a day as this? I think not. Death is as much a part of nature as living, and this place is alive, of that there is no doubt.
It’s perfect, in this place on this day, with no other people in sight. Dappled sunlight and flying bugs that catch the sunlight as they flit through the air. Time has no meaning here, one moment stretching into the next.
We pass on, slowly, slowly. There is no rush on this day and yet all too soon, or so it seems, we find ourselves back atop that lonely country lane, crowded with hawthorn and rhododendron; the heady sweet scent of the creamy mayflower and the bright clash of carnival colour of the rhododendron.
All photos are my own.
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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