The Forbidden Forest appears from the outside like a small island in the distance. You assume it is forbidden because it’s inside a wheat field, abutting the road. The road is used more frequently by dog walkers than it is by vehicles because it’s gated at one end, and the forested island is the size of a small copse. In the baking heat of a humid afternoon, the shade of the greenery beckons us closer. Inspecting the shaded border, I can’t see a way in. The undergrowth is stretching up into the hedge and the hedge is growing thick with blackthorn and elder bushes: flowering like profusion of starry white clouds.
A forest, by definition, is a large mature ecosystem so the forest aspect of The Forbidden Forest is, in fact, imaginary; but as you step off the beaten track, there it is all the same. You are stepping into a vast wilderness far larger than what the eye can see, as large as your imagination can stretch.
The way in is a small hole that requires a crouching shuffle as you press yourself into an opening in the hedge. An old dry branch lifts away with a dry cracking sound, and spiny new branches are held out of your face in both your hands. Inside, the shade is cool, and absolute, only small flecks of summer sun find their way onto the leaves of the forest floor.
In your immediate vicinity, there are rods of blackthorn spiking out of the ground. The ground slopes down, and there are mossy fallen branches in the gully and sideways low-growing trees on the bank. I hitch up my skirts so as not to collect too much stickyweed and seeds in their hems, and brave my bare legs to the foliage; trusting myself to find a path carefully and delicately, with some forward planning and elbowing in.
I lead us toward the sideways growing trees and we clamber over them. What at first seemed impenetrable has given way to a gradual step-by-step negotiation of where to place our feet and what foliage will give way; finding space for our travel through the wilderness.
As I step over the final branch I hold back a curtain of leaves and continue holding, leaving the way open for you to follow. One foot—scramble overtop—other foot: landing.
Birdsong titters and chortles, teets and sings in the thick undergrowth. The shade is cool, without any chill. I catch sight of a mature oak tree. It’s a single oak with a generous leafy crown that was quite invisible from the field.
Between us and the tree is a sea of nettles, dark like seaweed and as ready-to-sting as a jellyfish. They reach up into the green-lit space but with plenty of space around each stalk. You’re glad you don’t have bare legs like I do, and watch me track a tentative path, laying down each nearby stalk with the sole of my boot to widen the way toward the oak.
Reaching the oak tree together, you touch the brown, deeply furrowed bark of its trunk as you pass by it. And then, there is a small clearing beyond the tree. We see a small hawthorn tree the same height as you—well taller—but the uppermost branches trail down to brush shoulders with you. It has delicate spray’s of lobed green leaves. Hawthorn, also known as The White Lady is a faerie tree which blossoms white in spring, and fruits red in autumn.
You look for a place to sit and find a seat on a curving mossy branch. I sit next to you, and the moss is dry and furry like the hair of a bear under my hands. You watch patches of sunlight play on blackthorn leaves and we sit and drink in the sounds and colours of the forest, watching and listening to the place we have arrived in. My attention is drawn to all the different shaped leaves, and I realise the tree we are sitting on is a hawthorn too, just much, much larger.
I am thinking about the sense of arrival I felt when I passed the oak tree into the glade. How after a time of exploration in a forest; or with an artwork; or even a conversation, there is a distinct sense of arriving at a Somewhere. Often, we recognise it as a ‘something emerging’ or ‘something happening’. But in a landscape it's more obviously a somewhere.
As I walk, and move through the spaces in between things I encounter, I am learning about where I am, striking out impulsively, seeking something that waits for me in the unknown, perhaps around the next bend, over the next horizon, in the next breath, I will know it when I get there: a stopping place, a moment that requires that I stop and settle down with what’s in front of me.
And as I look around me now, I start to wonder if this act of noticing my environment, what is present and how I choose to relate to it … is this Place Making?
I keep this thought to myself because I know I am going to write it down for you later.
When we leave, I notice that we have been sitting in a glade of hawthorn trees, all circling the oak.
I am exploring whether there are ways of making, writing, sharing, and facilitating in a way that breaks away from the common pressures of social media production. To connect and relate to people online without feeling like the way to do it is copy capitalist driven content-creation and visibility-chasing.
Gone are the days when I was content to share allll of my process, without arriving somewhere together. I want to create spaces and experiences that have room for me, and for you, to meet and create and discover and transform. Today this looks like bringing you with me on a walk I had in the countryside this week.
If you listen to the audio recording of this article and you want me to record you a personalised audio walk, please get in touch via Instagram or Email to discuss what you need.