the first letter

Over the field and over the stile (illustration fig 1)

We set off on our country ramble - our first steps ... on this short trip or long hike - who knows… Thank you for joining me on our journey. The sun is shining, and there are bits of cloud, like strips of torn white paper thinly scattered over a sea of blueness. The green downs beckon from the wide yonder as if they are expecting us. On this morning of the last day of April, the air is sweet and fresh. We are minded of our promise to give ourselves a present, sharing some thoughts with each other.

The countryside is sometimes rambling, sometimes intimate, sometimes it makes associations en route, a touch discreet here, hidden secrets revealed there. The roads and paths on our journey twist and turn amongst the hills and valleys. Sometimes you might think you have lost your way, but that familiar intricate landscape still envelops, and caresses. This is a treasure hunt, but in search of what? In search of a word, a word that carries many meanings but carries one meaning deeper than all others.

We pass the rambling house. Its honey mellow bricks and pantile roof are welcoming. We see ‘October Hall’, in faded gold paint on a sign above the wrought iron gate. Perhaps we will return here at the end of our quest, if we survive our journey? The woods are deep. There are oaks and ash, rowan and birch. It is ancient woodland. The Celts once walked this land too. Those who can see by feeling, may yet sense their presence.

Thickets of brambles poke from the new green bracken ferns. The ground is sandy underfoot. Life is everywhere reawakening. Bluebells crowd the dappled sunpools, like ballet dancers under spotlights.

After walking through this landscape we find a stream, and follow its course down through the wood.

Eventually, after walking for some time, following the verdant banks as close as we may, we come to a clearing. The stream widens at this point. A strange red sandstone outcrop forms an island, and marks this as a special place. The stone is long and broadens out downstream and returns toward the far bank, suggesting a letter.

It is now mid afternoon. The light has turned a warmer hue. We decide that this will be our first point of call. A camp is made, our first camp on the journey. We choose a spot a little away from the clearing, behind a ridge, from where we can look down upon the scene, as it feels too special a place to intrude.

We make beds from the bracken. Tonight we will lie there to look up at the stars and wonder. What is our quest? How will we know when we find the answers we seek?

For now, we busy ourselves with our campfire and preparing our first meal. A vegetable broth, made from clear spring water. Before our journey, we each prepared a selection of foods. We have brought with us fruits and dried vegetables. And how the smell from the small pot now refreshes our souls! The meal brings us laughter, and we talk animatedly of the journey ahead.

We pass the time telling of childhood friends we once had; relating adventures half forgotten, but now once more brought to mind.

How dark it is. But now the friendly moon melts through the budding branches and bathes the clearing below in its yellow light. We think we hear the sounds of the crushing of bracken and look down expectantly, do we fall within a dream...

A diaphanous cloud veils the moon
that singing blind man is the wind
the air is fresh with whispering
the living dead are listening
The virgin huntress hides her head
And is led down paths to steep to stop...

We awake in the clearing. The early morning sun cascades around us in a waterfall of light. We rise from our bracken beds with one thought shared between us - if poetry is making love with words, did we trespass too close to the edge under the influence of the stars...