mi fhìn

.

— Mary Oliver

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Out the gate and onto the path, past the hedgerows draped in a dewy curtain of cobwebs. Through the Pines and lines of yellow Gorse, I walk the mile through the forest to sit atop Hawthorn Hill. One solitary tree but she is not alone, for beneath her is a large burrow. The prints pressed into in the soft conker brown tell me it’s a badger sett. 

To my right, a patchwork of farm land that turn to gold late Spring. In the distance the ancient White Horse of Mormond, her quartz glinting on a sunny day. To my left, I look over the trees straight out to where sky meets sea. The rugged coastline, its cliffs home to Slains Castle and Bram Stoker’s Dracula. 

In the wide blue open, buzzards soar ever upwards as the circle on invisible vents. I walk along the brow of the hill and down, past another badger sett and wonder if they are the same clan. Perhaps the burrow up top is a grand front door, one that tunnels to the others like a labyrinth.

Back on the path, I cross the stream, the dogs pick up speed as we head to the pond. Whatever the weather, the pool is always a welcome pit stop, and while the boys have a plooter, I scour for hag stones. Geology suggests that pre historically the land mass had been a loch or large body of water. The glacial till deposited by meltwater left a heady array of rocks and stones; flint, quartzite and granite among them. 

Then it’s through the bracken and heather up to the old water tower adorned in Larch; their branches so laden with cones and lichen they lie heavy across the roof. The landscape shifts to marsh and wild grasses. In the Summer the meadow is festooned with foxgloves and the thrum of bees. It is here you will see Sparrow Hawks, seeking out the smaller kind that search for sanctuary in the tall reeds. 

It’s now boggy underfoot, the mossy path dotted with pixie cups and heath pearlwort, their tiny white flowers stark against the peaty soil. Along the tree line, weaving between grand Scot’s Pine, Fir and Birch of the rewilded new forest.

This recedes and opens out to ramshackle fencing and rolling green fields scattered with sheep. Occasionally, grazing roe deer, safe in the silence until the dogs catch the scent and give chase. Descending, we head toward the shooters chair and follow the path right, and back into the forest. Through the bramble thicket and under the arch of wind fallen boughs to the brook.

The brook is deep so one must take a leap, there’s more than once I’ve chanced it and ended up with wet feet. The brook turns to stream which trails to a small glen. The canopy opens and floods the glade with light, making the moss glisten a glorious green. The damp brings a hint of cedar and cinnamon which stops me in my tracks. However, I can never find the source, for it is subtle and lingers in the liminal. 

Just before the trees give way to the forestry track, sits Dragonfly Corner; where the sun shines down in thick rays and the broad leaf dock grow ever so big. The insects flit and fly deftly weaving between the spires. Fay folk that speak in flashes of emerald, ruby and electric blue. 

Heading towards home we walk down through the wild flower meadow and cross the stream again. Through the marsh grass towards the sheltered clearing where the deer slumber at night, the flat round imprints in the grass give second sight.

This is where the hidden seat is. It is an old large flat tree stump nestled amongst the gorse and is the perfect place to sit with your thoughts, and a sketchbook. Especially on a warm day when the brush is in full bloom. The forest bursts with birdsong and the sweet scent of vanilla and coconut transports me back to a different time. And if one is really quiet and lucky, you might just catch glimpse of a Gorse Faërie amongst the yellow flowers. 

Now to head back, so we pick up the slack as we walk the last brae up to Raven Towers. It’s then that I hear them, their distinctive cronks carry across the miles. I look up and as always, smile. The two sentinels sit atop the pylons, masters of all they survey. The ravens are a couple and never stray more than a few feet apart.

Then we’re back on the track and a stone’s throw from the heart.