Penn Wood, January 1996

It is snowing the night we arrive at Granny Ash. Or perhaps it is one of those deep frosts that makes everything look white and sparkly even by moonlight. I’m with my best friend and my boyfriend. We stumble through dark forest until we see light, and are drawn to a fire crackling in a pit. Our first night at a tree camp. We are shy, nervous, new. All the faces lit by the flames are unfamiliar. We perch on a log and before long are soothed by the warm glow, and find ourselves inside an enchanted night-time circle.

That feeling of protection, of relief, of having finally arrived when you are sitting by a fire outdoors. When it’s raining and the rain hardly touches you because the heat from the fire dries it up before it lands on your coat.

Humble, quiet, listening, watching. A new realm, this world of trees, these woodland people. What are their rules, their codes of behaviour, their expectations? Are they closed? I worry that I am not alternative enough, too middle class to fit in. They will recognise me as an outsider. I regret my giant checked nylon flares and ludicrous attention to sartorial detail. Their clothes are as faded and ragged as the January leaves, their beards unkempt, their hair woolly and knotted like sheep’s wool.

But there are smiles for us, and smoky tea, elixir of life, chipped enamel cups warming frozen fingers, the hot liquid warming the belly, the steam on the face. And the talk is not small talk. These people are burning with the fire of passionate beliefs. This is a time of heightened experience. We have arrived at a battle camp of fighters mid-way through a campaign. All anyone is talking about is the war that is being fought – the day’s events, stories from up and down the line, triumphs, losses, strategies, rumours about the opposition, tactics.

i dream a drawing

Black lines on white paper. It’s a picture of a copse, delicate trees, young and spindly in winter. Somehow they emit a glow. Bare winter landscape around. Perhaps the sun is setting behind the trees. It seems like something is caught amongst them. Is it the sun? Or is it a creature? Or a god? It is mesmerising.

In the drawing, the trees are bound around with a beautiful ribbon or cord. The cord goes right the way around the perimeter of the copse. It gives the place an atmosphere of sanctity.

night tree nightmare

Night time. With friends and family, walking outside in a place where we are excited to be. This feels clandestine, as if we are trespassing. Cloistered gardens. Everywhere bright and dark green luminous in the moonlight. Like a Rousseau drawing. But the jungle is private: the huge spiky ferns and luscious trees are enclosed by tall razor sharp points. Heavy locked gates. Stone sculptures peep out as we peep in. We are walking down a long straight gravel path, like something at a stately home.

Ahead is the silhouette of a huge tree. This tree is not locked away. It is right in front of us on the path. Its outline is bald, leafless. We get closer and see the tree is dead. Its bark has been removed, its branches all hacked off. Still, it’s climbable and, without even speaking, we rush to it and clamber up it, excited, scrambling – me, my mum, my brother, my friend B. Climbing the dead, black, cracked tree with no skin. We are all heading for the bald stump-head of the tree, we are racing, and now suddenly here we are at the top in the moonlight, laughing. B is just below, reaching for the branch where my brother’s foot rests, and then the branch snaps and his foot pushes B and she loses her grip and falls suddenly and silently.

My mother is the first of us to climb down to her. My brother and I are screaming and crying, stumbling and fumbling our way down. When we reach the path we find mum standing silent and immobile. Where is B? We dare not look. My brother and I cling to each other, hysterically repeating, “Mum’s not even kneeling down, she’s not kneeling down.” Clearly kneeling for B is pointlesss – she has gone – all that remains is a smudge of some appalling grey-orange tissue like marmalade.

angry horse dream

I am with my brother Tom and our father. We are an itinerant troupe roaming through Greece. We are in an Orthodox church, unpacking our belongings and moving in. Gold leaf and dark wood. Packing our belongings and moving out. Always moving.  We are wearing long heavy robes.

Tom and I travel in a cart pulled by two beautiful palomino shire horses. I am mesmerised by the movement of their bodies, their sweat, their smell. I think my attentions are irritating to them, but they pull us and all our belongings through a hot mountainous landscape with the dusty perfume of pine and herbs, and the song of cicadas.

The way is long and stony. We reach the top of a mountain and are faced with a steep descent. The horses become edgy as they start to slip down the treacherous scree. One goes wild, rears and bucks its way out of the harness and tramples the cart to splinters. It is enraged. Tom and I flee up a pine tree. It is easy to climb but the wood is dry and dusty and the branches creak. I am acutely aware that we are pushing the dry branches to their limits. It is hard to tell which parts of the tree are alive and which are dead. The hot wind rustles in the pine needles.

The horse below is rearing up and pawing at the tree. It is trying to knock it down. Then it starts to climb. Tom and I watch incredulously as the huge furious animal comes agilely up after us, moving like a panther.