Another Hurdle

This week, I left it a bit late to take the sausages out as I had to wait in for a delivery. The sun was shining and it was quite hot, particularly for two dark-coloured, scampering sausages, so I took them to a wood with plenty of shade.

When I lived in the East End of London, I would regularly go to Epping Forest at weekends, where I would walk with my two dogs: Freyja, a 13-stone leonberger, and Myrtle, my tiny, rescued, fox-red jack russell, who weighed around three lbs.

I loved that forest. It always amazed me that, in London, you could walk for miles and see no one there. Something about the light in a forest never ceases to stop me in my tracks. Flashes of bright, luminous sunshine burst through the canopy above, contrasting with dark, dappled pebbles that shift and move like small, unseen animals.

Then there’s the feeling underfoot, spongy and yielding. Dry, hard packed earth covered in mossy humps and dried foliage that give the impression of being carpeted, protected by all manner of secret promises. Seeds carried by birds and tiny wood mice have made their home there, waiting to sprout in tender green shoots or turn into a myriad of pale cream, dark chestnut brown or bright red fungi.

It always strikes me more than anywhere else how keenly a forest touches all our senses. The gentle hum of silence is broken by the odd flutter of a bird, or the soft thud of something falling, seeds bouncing and rolling. A Cuckoo somewhere off in the distance, with its repetitive two-note phrase, or the kick-kick staccato of the drumming Woodpecker, all slightly muffled.

But what strikes me most is the smells. A mixture of earthy, woody, floral notes that create a visceral picture of life and death, both musty and fresh.

I would park my car on the edge of the forest and, carrying a rucksack with a thermos of coffee, take off with my dogs. Freyja would always stay close, only a few feet ahead of me as she padded along on giant paws, while Myrtle would instantly disappear completely.

I learned early on that whilst I could not see her, she was never far away, and I was always in her line of sight. I never worried about either of them; even rabbits and deer would not startle them. One word from me and they’d both come to heel. They were good dogs, easily trained and wonderful company.

Onlookers would have thought I was bonkers as I always talked to them out loud (eeek, I still do that). When we’d find a suitable tree stump, we’d stop for coffee, and they’d sit with me, a running commentary between us.