Today I take a silent walk with Dan through the woodland. We spend just over an hour meandering through the trees and thickets, not talking and just listening.
Leaving base camp westwards, across the middle ride and towards the Dingle; we find ourselves being serenaded by the desolate cries of three buzzards overhead. It is a clear sky day and we lift our heads to see the trio of feathered raptors, circling, swooping and calling to each other in some unknown tongue.
One flies low and follows the path of the middle ride, no doubt scanning for prey. As it passes over our heads I can see it cock its head sideways and eye us with fearless interest; so low I pick out the glint of a sunbeam in its dark, inky eye.
Into the Dingle we meander, swallowed by its dense thicket of shrubbery. The small birds have wisely sought cover here from the buzzards and a wren, its beak holding a bright green caterpillar, catches my eye on a low hawthorn branch.
It too cocks its head toward me, bobs its signature dance then disappears deeper into the maze of greenery. I train my vision, delving into the multilayered understory and by squinting my eyes I spot a small, intricate globe, woven into the skeletal arms of a hazel. The wrens nest.
Freezing my body and holding my breath I listen for the cheep-cheep of babies, but no sound comes. It is slightly too early for wren chicks so the wren must be feeding a brooding mate.
Onward under the low vaulting, Hundred Oak now forming visually in the exit of the Dingle up ahead, bare brown tree trunks are framed like a wall hung picture by the green thicket edge. The sheer density of this intricate tunnel saps the air and creates a humid warmth around us, the scene ahead looks inviting and draws us on.
A surge of clappery up to my right, then the sound of a vintage car horn. We have disturbed a male pheasant who takes to the air in a rage of feathers, screeching his metallic alarm call. I turn to follow his flight and it is short lived, he lands bumpety bump on the furrows of the bare arable field to the north of the woodland.
Exiting the shade we enter Hundred Oak into bright, sharp light. I take a moment to adjust my eyesight and take in a deep breath of pure, cool air. The oak leaves are still unfurling and among these tall standard trees both the sun and breeze sneak through to flood the space.
Fallen oak leaves still crunch under my work boots, the weather has been unseasonably dry. I hear a harder crack and look down towards my feet, it is an acorn cup. Then I see more, a small pile of toy goblets next to a freshly excavated hole. A grey squirrel stash, recently raided because now is the hungry gap before the cherries and hazelnuts appear.
We amble through the brunette boles, which stand like rigid soldiers on sentry. So closely planted they have grown tall and the canopy is a high Georgian ceiling. The cherries are nearing the end of their blooming and below them lies a carpet of spring snow.
A butterfly bounces by, chaotically battling the low wind. It comes to rest on a stalk of last year's seedhead grass, swaying like a drunkard clinging to a bus stop. It is a male brimstone, his lemony, toffee spotted wings blend with the fallen cherry blossom to make an icecream sundae.
Up to Widows Peak we walk, it is the western boundary of the wood. The common reeds that crowd this space are still golden from their autumn bake, their fresh new pea-pod stems barely peeking through from below. This clearing is open on all but one aspect and I feel the powder puff touch of the breeze, tepid on my cheeks.
The hawthorn on the edges of the woodland are beginning to flower, they benefit from the unimpeded sunshine here compared to the more enclosed parts of the site. I hear the pollinating insects, a crooning murmur which is impossible to resist.
I move closer to the tiny white flowers and the thrum surrounds me. The vibrations of this intense but soft trilling becomes a cosy lullaby and my mind is emptied of everything except the beauty of what I can see and hear in that moment. The sound exudes warmth and I can almost taste honey on my tongue.
Back towards the east we skirt the edges of Hundred Oak, through the Dell. This is a shady promenade alongside the drainage ditch, which is now void of water and holds a mattress of fallen leaves. I hear a rustle and register a brief sepia flash.
A brown hare comes to a halt under the boundary trees along the lane, a length of new grass trailing from its mouth. Fearing we may cause it alarm, we move swiftly on, back towards the southern portion of the Dingle.
The apples on the edges of the thicket here are bathed in day long sunshine and they are in full, bubbling bloom. The pollinators are gathered too and we pass by at a distance so as not to disturb them again.
Then we are back to the middle ride, which we cross and enter into the field maple and silver birch stand. Up ahead, where the eastern hazel coupe begins I see a small deer, a muntjac. We are well camouflaged among the low leafed maple and remain downwind of the small mammal as it browses on new herbage.
Edging around base camp and the coupe, to avoid the muntjac doe as she enjoys her afternoon tea, we arrive at old base camp, where we used to pitch our tent and watch the sunsets over Deer Point. It is now a glade; sown with native wildflowers last autumn.
I bend and seek out the miniscule seedlings and am joyful when I see the scatter of new green. Protected with the brash from coppicing they seem to be getting a good chance at life under their organic cage.
At the edge of the nursery, I squat to lift a dead, fallen branch and observe the familiar dullness of gun metal grey. Woodlice huddled together in the dank hollow beneath the decaying wood, going about their quiet business. Quickly returning their shelter I apologise for disturbing their peaceful, dark sanctuary.
Finally back at camp, I settle into my chair with Dan sitting beside me in his. The power of a silent walk cannot be underestimated and although I suspect we both want to discuss what we have seen, instead we bathe in the tender and benign woodland music a little while longer.
The fire is crackling down to a forgiving smoulder, perfectly toasting my knees.
Woodlands are a wonder.
🌸🌱🪺☀️🐰🦅🐿️🦋🐛