Few words and lots of carving.
What is this? Answer later.
No I didn’t try this, looked too complicated. Do you like your walks with or without augmented reality?
Will you have a sit down or go for a jog?
Bare winter trees reveal we are not far from town.
Gabriella tied back her springy blond hair and trotted down the stairs.
‘Gabby, surely you are not going out dressed like that, you’ll freeze.’
‘Muuum, this is my jogging outfit, I’ll soon warm up running.’
‘Do be careful and don’t go into the woods.’
‘But the woods will be perfect on a morning like this, sunny and frosty.’
‘Not now they have started that new scheme.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read on Facebook.’
‘… and I do wish you would have breakfast before going out on a cold morning.’
It was a beautiful morning as Gabby trotted off down the road and took the footpath into the National Trust woodland. They were so lucky to live near a forest. She waved to a couple of joggers she knew by sight as they passed by.
‘Lovely morning, happy new year.’
‘Same to you…’
Further along Gabby glanced at her Fit Bit, she was doing a good time, maybe she would go in for the local half marathon and then who knew what next. She took the right fork for the first time to increase the length of her circuit. It was a pretty path but more challenging with an incline and rougher going. Gabby began to wonder how much further this was than her normal route. Then she began to wonder when she would come across a familiar path. After a while she began to feel hungry and a bit light headed. Perhaps she should have had a yoghurt or banana before setting out. Still, she must keep going and not lose her rhythm. Her aim now was not preparing for a marathon but to get home and persuade her mother to cook her a nice breakfast.
In the distance she could see a shape, a cottage, a run down cottage? Strange, nobody was supposed to live in these woods, that’s why they were perfect for the rewilding project. Probably abandoned decades ago, but why could she detect the delightful scent of wood smoke? As Gabby drew closer she could see smoke gently spiralling up in the cold air. Must be some poor homeless person, sensible to make a cosy home for himself, better than sleeping on the pavement.
The path led close by the ramshackle cottage and she felt like an intruder. Should she rush past or take a diversion? No she must stick to the path, the trees were really thick here and she didn’t want to get further lost than she was already. As she ran round to the other side, she noticed the door was open and there was the unmistakeable smell of porridge. She realised just how hungry she was now and wished she was back home eating porridge and watching breakfast TV. But despite her misgivings she could not resist having a peep inside.
To her surprise it looked clean and homely and on a wooden table stood three bowls of steaming porridge. There was no sign of the occupants. Now she was so hungry she thought if she took a spoonful out of each bowl, nobody would notice. It tasted divine, the fresh cold morning air had given her an appetite.
The cottage was silent, she took a few more spoonfuls, just enough to boost her energy so she could get away before the mystery occupants returned. But as she took her phone off her belt, thinking of looking at Google maps to get her location, she had an idea. She must take a few quick snaps to show her friends and put on Instagram and it would be a shame not to take a quick shot upstairs.
The old worn wooden steps creaked as she crept up and came straight out into a single room with a sloping roof, just big enough for three beds. With their clean fresh duvets it all looked unlikely to be a hidey hole for a homeless person or someone on the run from the police. As Gabby stared she realised how cold she had become since she stopped running. It would be a sensible idea to climb under the duvet and warm her limbs up for a few minutes, as long as she did not fall asleep.
The next thing she knew she was startled by a noise, a lot of noises, loud men’s voices in a strange language. All she could do was hide under the duvet and hope they would sit down and eat their porridge and not come upstairs. Her hands were shaking as she tried to look at her phone, but who should she call?
At that moment she felt a heavy hand press down on her shoulder. She let out a muffled scream and somehow managed to scramble out of the bed and stumble down the stairs. Her nimbleness getting out of the door was her only advantage against the two very large figures downstairs.
At the Reursinement headquarters several people were observing all the monitors.
‘Any sign of them?’
‘No, but that’s only to be expected, we can’t have CCTV all over the forest.’
‘What about the tracking devices?’
‘They stopped working days ago.’
‘So are you saying we have no idea where they are?’
‘Yes, no, surely the idea of rewilding is just that, letting them get on with their own lives, looking after their young without us intruding and they should be hibernating by now.’
‘Hopefully, but do rescued circus bears actually know how to hibernate?’
Charlotte is trying to get on with writing her new novel and hoping for inspiration for strange situations to get Lottie Lincoln into, but it is Charlotte who faces a strange situation.
‘Have you visited the tree yet?’ asked Myrtle.
Charlotte had been invited in for a cup of tea by her elderly next door neighbour. She had seen plenty of trees on her walks by the River Ham. Late spring and they were at their best, fresh green leaves bursting with new life. Among the people she had met living by or enjoying the river, none had mentioned a particular tree.
‘What tree?’
‘The Hambourne Oak of course, hmm, perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn, only locals know about it and newcomers are not told unless they are worthy.’
Charlotte was not sure whether to be honoured Myrtle had told her or disconcerted that Myrtle thought she should not have revealed the secret.
‘I won’t tell a soul Myrtle, your secret is safe with me. I have been reading all the local books about Hambourne, so interesting, but never any reference to the oak tree.’
‘You won’t read about the Hambourne Oak anywhere. No one knows how old she is, the important thing is that you must introduce yourself politely to her then she will protect you.’
Charlotte had not imagined Myrtle to be a tree hugger and though she was an older lady, she surely she had not been brought up in a time of myths. Still, her curiosity was aroused and this sounded like inspiration for the next Lottie Lincoln adventure in her WIP, work in progress, though she was making little progress…
‘Protection against what?’
‘Who knows, anything can happen in Hambourne, strange things have always happened here.’
‘Well when Robert Falstaff from the writers’ group I had joined was found murdered with his hands chopped off, that was certainly strange!’
‘Exactly and he was not a local, nor was he liked much so I imagine he had never been told to meet the tree.’
‘So where is this oak tree.’
‘I can’t tell you that dear, the whole point is to find it for yourself, which you will if she wants you to find her.’
‘How will I know, trees all look much the same to me, I mean I know what an oak tree looks like, but how would I recognise a special one?’
‘You will know when you see it, but on no account carve your name upon her, only Hambourne born may do that.’
Charlotte was intrigued with that information, a tree trunk with names carved for generations should be easy to spot.
‘Just tie ribbons in your colours.’
‘I don’t think I have my own colours.’
‘You must have, everyone has a colour of their own.’
The next day, Charlotte walked down the lane to the river and set off along the river bank in the opposite direction to the Ham Way. After a night of strange dreams about trees she was uncertain whether to believe Myrtle, a rational person would just laugh. She told herself all she was doing was investigating the other side of the river and enjoying fresh air and exercise before getting down to writing. In her pocket was the pound coin for the Ham ferry. She soon spotted a green flag and a few people standing on a wooden jetty. A small motor boat was making its way towards the jetty. As she drew closer she could see the flag bore the motif of an oak tree, was that a clue?
The captain or boatman, whatever one called him, deftly flung a rope loop over a wooden post and pulled in close enough for his passengers to climb out, without securing the other end of the boat.
‘See you later’ he waved them on their way. Charlotte guessed they were from the village of Little Hambourne, off to enjoy the comprehensive attractions of the town of Hambourne.
The boatman turned his attention to those waiting on the jetty.
‘Any news yet?’
‘No, nothing’ they shook their heads.
‘Sorry to hear that, if there’s anything me and Cis can do…’
Charlotte felt herself a real outsider. The few minutes it took to cross the river were spent in silence, she was intrigued to know whatever was happening, but unlikely to find out. She perched awkwardly on the narrow bench feeling her presence an intrusion. Remarks about the nice day or the pleasure of being on the river, would be out of place.
At the other side the rope was slipped over a rickety post and the boatman motioned for her to get off first. She would have to clamber unsteadily out under the watchful eyes of everyone.
As she turned to thank him and hand her coin over he said ‘Be sure not to miss the last ferry at five thirty and don’t get lost in the woods.’
He smiled for the first time and she was sure the other passengers caught his eye and smirked.
Charlotte chose the path along the bank, she was not letting the river out of her sight and resisted the temptation to turn and see if the others were following. She hoped she was setting a confident pace and after ten minutes stopped to take a sip of her water and admire the view, while glancing back to see if she was being followed. Not a soul in sight and soon it was obvious why no one else had taken this path as it petered out. At some stage the river bank had collapsed into the river, she would either have to turn back or follow the narrow track into the woods. She determined to wander a little way to see where it went then return. Birds were singing, though she could not see them in the thick foliage and the woodland floor littered with centuries of leaves had a unique scent. Though she had only ventured a few yards she felt she was in the depth of the woods. She must relax and enjoy the moment, forest bathing, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them she was standing under the oak tree. Was this really the Hambourne Oak? It was festooned with ribbons and dangling ornaments and a closer look revealed many names carved and various symbols, though nothing as common as a heart to link names.
‘Good Day, I’m Charlotte from Hounslow.’
Did she say that out loud? The tree looked down at her with a dignified stillness, there was no breeze to ruffle her leaves. She touched the ancient bark with one hand then both, not a tree hugger yet. The mighty oak was much too vast to hug.
A crackle of twigs startled her, then she detected movement on the other side of the trunk. Her first instinct was to run back to the river, but she pictured herself tripping over a tree root and lying helpless… she paused and a man stepped out, scruffy appearance but familiar.
‘Sorry, I thought I was alone.’
‘Danny, Daniel Worth?’
He did not seem to recognise her.
‘Charlotte from Hambourne Creative Writers…’
He looked more nervous than she was so she felt emboldened to speak again.
‘You have been reported missing.’
‘Do I look like I’m missing? I came to talk to the tree. Don’t look so scared, I’m not a murderer.’
Any illusion Charlotte had that she was handling this cool and calmly, like those heroines on TV dramas, were shattered.
‘I did not kill Robert Falstaff’ he said in a strong voice that did scare her.
This was turning into a plot she had not even imagined for Lottie Lincoln, what would Lottie say or do?
‘Nor did I, so the only way to prove our innocence is to find out who did.’
‘Another one’s appeared, on the oak tree, pathetic and disrespectful, cultural appropriation or is it misappropriation?’
‘Just ignore them Oberon.’
‘I’m going to take my axe to it this time.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, they aren’t causing any harm to us, not compared with all the other stuff they do.’
‘What if one of our folk thought it was a real door!’
‘Daddy, why have you got an axe?’
‘Your father’s getting overwrought over the giants again. If you’re not careful Oberon they’re going to see you and then where will we be, doesn’t bear thinking.’
‘Mummy, you said the giants wouldn’t hurt us.’
‘They won’t as long as they don’t believe we exist. Anyway, it’s time you were getting ready for school, have you brushed your wings?’
A good day for a trip
Strange sights to see – what is this monolith? Answer at the end.
What is going on and where are we?
Enjoy Spring
Time to get back on the bus.
But keep an eye on the sky…
Nearly time to celebrate Floralia.
What is the monolith?
A strange spring ritual on the beach?
A giant mobile phone?
Just when you think there is nothing left to snap for Silly Saturday you realise the buildings have eyes, a giant squirrel appears and all the trees fall down.
Then suddenly, Winter turns up.
When Findlay Cummings cycled up the long driveway of the country mansion on his latest visit to interview Doctor Chowdry, he was astonished to see the usually restrained doctor up an old oak tree. Circling round the trunk in great excitement was the head gardener’s loveable ten month old Labrador. Grabbing hold of his collar wasn’t as easy as Fin expected, the dog thought it was part of the game, while the doctor appeared in fear of his life.
‘Have you got a gun? Fetch help, I think I’m going to fall.’
‘No, no, it’s okay, Ptolemy is just a big old softy.’
Despite loving dogs Findlay was still glad to see Ptolemy’s owner hove into view, he did not want to have to explain to the boss that their precious visitor from the future had broken his neck falling out of a tree.
A sharp whistle from the head gardener and the dog retreated; Ptolemy knew who the pack leader was.
The gardener marched off, not wishing to get involved with the strange guests and visitors to the normally peaceful mansion, but Findlay raced after him to ask if he had a ladder.
‘Thanks Mr. Cummings, that’s the last time I venture outside’ said Doctor Chowdry, as the woman who seemed to be responsible for medical checks bathed a few cuts and scratches.
‘I presumed it was the first time you had ever climbed a tree and I remembered, from when I used to play with my big brothers in the woods, that climbing down is often harder than climbing up. But honestly there is no danger in the grounds.’
‘All animals are dangerous, especially ones with teeth and I have read in the newspapers that dogs kill people.’
‘Oh em, well not often and not that sort of dog.’
‘And cows.’
‘What?’
‘Your cows kill people.’
‘No, they just wander round fields eating grass…’
‘Come with me to the library and I will show you my reading and studies, why I haven’t had time to do more interviews, go exploring outside. I wanted to gather evidence to explain my theories, to myself as much as to world leaders.’
The normally sedate and dusty library was full of newspapers and scientific magazines, in piles on the floor and spread over tables with cuttings and photos snipped out. Children killed by dogs, walkers trampled by cows…
Initially the doctor had been entranced by the wonderful old books, but then he became obsessed with fresh writing. Brought up in the bunker with only a few old books and tatty documents it was paradise for him to see freshly printed paper and glossy magazines. Intelligent articles on science and medicine were an antidote to the mindless prattle of Belinda Billington and Lauren Smith and the various persons looking after or guarding Belinda and himself.
‘Look Mr. Cummings, your citizens don’t need to be scientists, play with DNA to create new breeds. Bully dogs bred from the toughest specimens and what happened when they roamed wild? And this, introducing strange animals, calling it rewilding… your people don’t know what they are doing, if they saw the real wild lands …’
‘But plenty of countries have all sorts of wild animals, people have always co-existed…’
‘But when man started interfering with nature, changing DNA; safe in the laboratories perhaps, but when infrastructure breaks down, when all the beasts escape, mixing breeding, evolving…’
‘Okay, I understand your theories, but how did cities fall apart as you say they will?’
‘Look at today’s paper, Artificial Intelligence.
It is not me making things up. I am just beginning to understand how it all started to go wrong and we must tell everyone.’
You could cut the darkness with a knife, feel it’s heaviness. Once the land rover had driven out of sight there was no light. This was the night my ancestors knew; when the last embers had died and the lard lamp guttered. There was no moon and no starlight penetrated the forest canopy.
I knew I was only yards from the track we had just driven along, but my sense of direction had deserted me, though I had not turned or moved a step. I reached in my pocket for my phone, though I knew it was not there. A warm coat and a bottle of water the only concessions to basic needs. Minutes ago, what lay ahead seemed so easy; use my other senses, feel my tread, listen to the sounds of nature and walk in a straight line the way I had been sent… keep going until the first glimpse of dawn or the village lights, whichever came first.
But if I set off in the wrong direction I would not find anywhere or anyone and they would not find me.
I should have timed how long it took to reach this spot from the edge of the track, but I had no means of telling the time, I had not even a sense of how many minutes I had stood on this spot. Should I start walking, then after an indeterminate interval stop if I did not feel the soft autumn carpet change to the gravel track?
Was my heart really beating so loudly I could hear it? I reached out my hands and felt solid tree trunk. Perhaps I should curl up in its roots and wait till sunrise, but then they would find me if they returned. I needed to find the village we had passed. A bleakness descended on me that I had never known before, a loneliness that was complete. I had no god to call on and I could not reach out to the seething mass of humanity that I so often wanted to get away from. My soul was stripped bare and I was found wanting, I was not capable of existing as an individual.
Foolishly I started running in sheer panic and found myself flung to the ground by The Green Man. Spitting leaves out of my mouth a glimmer of sense returned; it was not the spirit of the woods, merely a tree root that had tripped me. Relief was replaced by pain then despair at my own foolishness; why had I been talked into joining a boot camp that promised to clear my brain and cure my addiction to screen time?
Rounding off this week’s May walks, saunter across Tuckton Bridge to the Christchuch side of the River Stour.
Where are you now and who is watching you?
Perhaps you won’t get lost if you follow the path…
…and don’t annoy The Green Man
You have reached your destination.
Gather here for the monthly Win on Waste; to the delight of green thinkers or anyone on the obsessive spectrum you can save all sorts of household items unwanted in your council recycling bins. From stamps to old toothbrushes. At a glance the most popular donations seem to be medicine blister packs and bras. The various items are donated to charities, community groups and artists. Exactly how they use them I am not sure, but ‘follow the milk bottle top’ could be a topic for a blog…
Do you have local community collections?
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 