We were lost.
My ‘short cut’ had somehow woven a tangled trail deeper into the forest. The path that had once been broad and wide had now dwindled to an almost indecipherable track; discernable only by dead leaves that were marginally more flattened than their nearby cousins.
‘It’s this way,’ I announced brightly with brittle confidence.
‘Ow!’ The teenager protests.
The branches that I’ve just ducked under have swiped him across the face.
We are jumping across muddy streams and tripping over tree roots.
The trail into the forest had been so easy.
True: we had had to park in the car park that was a long way from our chosen destination as the other had been full; and this had only added an extra mile to our walk but it would be worth it.
We were going to have a picnic.
We had seen other picnickers the previous day.
‘They can’t be doing that!’ We had exclaimed aghast, as in the busy car park we saw a couple spreading out their picnic blanket. Around them cars sent up dust clouds, children played ball, and dogs freshly released from hot cars looked for a spot to relieve themselves.
We had been horrified.
‘That’s no place for a picnic,’ we had chorused.
We had become picnic snobs.
As we walked along our easy trail we saw other picnickers.
‘No,’ we exclaimed in horror as a family group who had been walking towards us decided to step off the path and straggle a ditch sitting on the stumps of the newly felled trees. All around them was the devastation of newly felled trees; the smell of resin like the smell of blood from a murder scene.
‘How can they sit in a ditch?’ We exclaimed in disgust once we were out of earshot. ‘And there of all places!’
We knew the perfect place. It was just a little further on. We hoped that no one else had discovered it.
We had been there the previous day enjoying the peace and solitude when a family had strolled up invading our privacy.
‘Have a sandwich,’ the man had said to a small child who was watching us with fascination.
‘How could they?’ I had later seethed. ‘How could they decide to have a picnic right next to us when there was the rest of the open forest to choose?’
I had become suddenly aware of the art of picnic etiquette.
The next day, a mile or so later, we had returned with our very own picnic.
Not for us a picnic in a noisy car park, or in a forest ditch, or right next to somebody else. Okay, so our ideal spot involved a little climbing and a head for heights but it was the perfect spot for a picnic.
It took courage. The final flip and swing of the body over the two metre gap had us both trembling but we did it. We had attained the seat at the top of the tower and we were going to have a picnic. We had views over what were once long open rides, where the medieval kings of England had once hunted. We could imagine the monarch, his cloak flapping in the wind, as he chased his quarry through the trees.
We were surrounded by beautiful trees and shaded from the sun. We had delicious food and our picnic snobbery now knew no bounds. We were like Nazis in our watch tower lording it over our domain, daring any to approach and encroach on our picnic.
No one came close
No one dared.
We played a long game of chess, trying to postpone as long as possible the frightening demands of the descent back to earth.
All was quiet and peaceful.
The forest has many ghosts but in the stillness we did not hear the ghostly sound of the invisible coach and horses which are reputed to career through the trees.
Eventually, we did clamber back down and began to follow my ‘short cut’ to find the car park again. The thin trail was one that the ghost of a monk could have walked. He certainly had left no footprints if he’d passed that way earlier in the day.
We were lost; and we startled the wildlife with our stumbling presence. A young buck deer with proud antlers stood in a clearing and watched us with astonishment. Peacock butterflies warmed their wings on cut logs as we finally regained the trail.
True: there was now a horse cantering towards us out of control, but we had enjoyed the perfect picnic; the way it should be done.
‘It’s this way,’ I announced brightly with brittle confidence.
‘Ow!’ The teenager protests.
The branches that I’ve just ducked under have swiped him across the face.
We are jumping across muddy streams and tripping over tree roots.
The trail into the forest had been so easy.
True: we had had to park in the car park that was a long way from our chosen destination as the other had been full; and this had only added an extra mile to our walk but it would be worth it.
We were going to have a picnic.
We had seen other picnickers the previous day.
‘They can’t be doing that!’ We had exclaimed aghast, as in the busy car park we saw a couple spreading out their picnic blanket. Around them cars sent up dust clouds, children played ball, and dogs freshly released from hot cars looked for a spot to relieve themselves.
We had been horrified.
‘That’s no place for a picnic,’ we had chorused.
We had become picnic snobs.
As we walked along our easy trail we saw other picnickers.
‘No,’ we exclaimed in horror as a family group who had been walking towards us decided to step off the path and straggle a ditch sitting on the stumps of the newly felled trees. All around them was the devastation of newly felled trees; the smell of resin like the smell of blood from a murder scene.
‘How can they sit in a ditch?’ We exclaimed in disgust once we were out of earshot. ‘And there of all places!’
We knew the perfect place. It was just a little further on. We hoped that no one else had discovered it.
We had been there the previous day enjoying the peace and solitude when a family had strolled up invading our privacy.
‘Have a sandwich,’ the man had said to a small child who was watching us with fascination.
‘How could they?’ I had later seethed. ‘How could they decide to have a picnic right next to us when there was the rest of the open forest to choose?’
I had become suddenly aware of the art of picnic etiquette.
The next day, a mile or so later, we had returned with our very own picnic.
Not for us a picnic in a noisy car park, or in a forest ditch, or right next to somebody else. Okay, so our ideal spot involved a little climbing and a head for heights but it was the perfect spot for a picnic.
It took courage. The final flip and swing of the body over the two metre gap had us both trembling but we did it. We had attained the seat at the top of the tower and we were going to have a picnic. We had views over what were once long open rides, where the medieval kings of England had once hunted. We could imagine the monarch, his cloak flapping in the wind, as he chased his quarry through the trees.
We were surrounded by beautiful trees and shaded from the sun. We had delicious food and our picnic snobbery now knew no bounds. We were like Nazis in our watch tower lording it over our domain, daring any to approach and encroach on our picnic.
No one came close
No one dared.
We played a long game of chess, trying to postpone as long as possible the frightening demands of the descent back to earth.
All was quiet and peaceful.
The forest has many ghosts but in the stillness we did not hear the ghostly sound of the invisible coach and horses which are reputed to career through the trees.
Eventually, we did clamber back down and began to follow my ‘short cut’ to find the car park again. The thin trail was one that the ghost of a monk could have walked. He certainly had left no footprints if he’d passed that way earlier in the day.
We were lost; and we startled the wildlife with our stumbling presence. A young buck deer with proud antlers stood in a clearing and watched us with astonishment. Peacock butterflies warmed their wings on cut logs as we finally regained the trail.
True: there was now a horse cantering towards us out of control, but we had enjoyed the perfect picnic; the way it should be done.
Hullo Denny! Were you in Salcey? You do tickle one's humerus!
ReplyDeletebtw, when's the 'elephant in the room' that is the glaringly obvious solution of Adam adopting Rory going to stampede through chez Aldridge?
2007 snogs
Well spotted Andy,
ReplyDeleteYes it was Salcey. We absolutely love the place.
Love and hugs
Denny