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henry david thoreau

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”

-Walden, 1854

spattered photo

Going through old photos this weekend, I found three pictures from my time at Newbury.

One is taken from a tree top at sunset. An ocean of winter branches extends to the horizon beneath a reddening sky.

Another picture shows some polypropylene knotwork, the blue cord walkways high above the leaf litter.

The third photograph is crumpled and spattered with pen marks. It shows an area of denuded ridge surrounded by men in helmets and yellow coats. Inside this cordon, three trees remain standing in a line amongst the debris and carnage of a felled wood. Each tree has had all its branches removed except for the one at the very top. Right up there at the top of each of these limbless birch spikes, right up in the grey sky, there is the tiny bleak silhouette of a person clipped on.

trees without leaves

Trees are beautiful in winter.

The January sun is brilliant. We find a wood and step into its shade and silence. The trees here are not big, but they are not easy to climb: like thick poles, with no branches. Max scrambles nimbly up one and I feel embarrassed that I can’t do the same. Eventually I find a tree with an accommodating crook and wedge myself into it. Just a few feet off the ground and I feel like an animal.

There is a pheasant. I think I could catch it.

A chill descends. We return to the sun, and find a different sort of tree perched on a slope. It is bigger with plenty of branches. Up, pulling up with the arms, muddy boots slipping trying to find a hold on smooth bark.

Max lies along a branch; I straddle and cling to another. The valley drops away below us like a bowl, and we can hear walkers discussing their dogs’ personalities. Frost on the grass shines in the sun.

I look at Max and want to jump on him.  I jump out of the tree and run down the hill.

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.