Won’t you come and crunch some acorns with me? Fact, fiction and times past, all woven crudely together and unravelled here, in this short story search for purpose.

Early one autumn morn during a country walk, I happened across an impressive holly oak tree, where I chose to sit for a while. There, I was to discover not just a handsome tree but a potent place, one that offered a lens through which landscape and life could be viewed.

Prior to that deep-seated moment, I’d been drifting in and out of thought whilst stomping up a hill, upon which oaks and yews had lived for a century or more. Boughs from path side trees formed an impressive tunnel overhead, but my eyes were mostly flitting from fronds beside the path one moment, to fungi living on fallen wood the next: all the while crunching over acorns strewn all about, it being a mast year.

After a few minutes of continual climb, I was drawn by some light glowing from the side of the track, although given the seemingly never-ending weather pattern, it wasn’t so much a burst of sun, but a brief patch of brightness. Nevertheless, whilst standing there appreciating that burly oak’s silhouette, a narrow track appeared before me, so through the ferny foliage I duly stepped, unsure if I was simply exploring the place, or had been summoned to it.

A sheltered, comforting space awaited so I stayed awhile, but whilst settling in, it became obvious that a different kind of energy existed therein. Looking around, it felt as if I were not alone, or that others had been there before, whether to seek shelter, to worship nature or for some other reason unbeknown. Attempting to free my busying mind I soon was drawn to that earlier light source, where a narrow opening in the canopy now revealed an impressive landscape scene.

I looked out from my woodland hide to see hills mostly clothed in oaks, time served trees covering most every naturally formed bump and burrow. As the hill fell away before me, I began to imagine myself an owl, perched in my tree whilst studying the scene, readying myself to flap clear of the leaves and glide down over the leafy treetops. Get a grip, I then thought to myself.

Sitting there for a few moments more, absorbing the view, a sound made itself known, the rushing of a river way down below in the base of the valley. I pictured the meandering river’s form and its stony bed worn through time, when another mindful moment arrived, and I became a fish. In my dull camouflaged form I swam steadily against the current, weaving calmly from side to side whilst remaining vigilant. Then I became a duck, standing one legged upon a central river rock, then an otter sat upon the bank, studying the water intently for any fish who dared swim by. Pulling my vision back yet again to the shade of that old oak, I returned to my own self, with my own fanciful imagination.

Feeling the hill top chill again, a dampness in the air made itself known, its droplets coating every leafy tier with moisture. Yet, and after many prior days of rain, more drizzle began to fall. Pouring out steaming black coffee from my flask, I counselled the heavens to give the place a break; whilst in the same breath knowing that was just the way things were.

Even still, I spared thoughts for some of the other hearts beating across the forest in those moments. I supposed rabbits and foxes would have to stay below ground a little longer, birds would bunch together in their nests, and I hoped the deer I spotted earlier would have sought shelter, beneath its own tree where acorns could be munched peaceably.

That leafy landscape I mused, with its highs, lows and assorted arteries, its fungal webs, lost treasures and green oak leaved blanket, was just as alive as any place on earth could be. Whilst it held secrets, it was a refreshingly green and honest place, where life cycled, water and blood flowed – both openly and secretly, and where all species existed together. There might even have lived faeries and elves for all I knew.

Despite the absence of a little sun to warm the day through, it was not a time for doom or despondency but joy, and that was because my woodland walk was delivering much more than I had expected. I realised that it was not in those moments for me to dwell on how it all worked, or to try and understand the complex web of life that existed there, but simply to value it. My part in that day was simply to be, to let it be, and to breath it all in as deeply as I possibly could, whilst appreciating both the solitude and togetherness that woodland offered.

Out of nowhere a gust of wind blew, patting thousands of raindrops down from nearby treetops, and in a second my mind opened once again to the scenic view. This time through the grey I began to make out some stone walls in a clearing just across the valley, seated in the scene as if they’d always been there. Intriguingly I processed, the walls clearly holding a garden, the wall’s purpose was to keep out the wilderness – the very thing that over in my tree, I had been celebrating.

Regardless, and not having been there in person, I pictured both the garden, and its environs lavishly kept and in good order. All soil would be frequently weeded I thought, gravel raked, lawns luxuriant, borders packed with exotics, and espaliered trees laden with fruit; I surmised a lot. I even speculated, given the hour, the presence of a couple of gardeners over there too, sheltering from the weather in a well swept bothy. One could have their head buried in a research paper on organic growing, whilst the other was striving not to lose their biscuit to the brew. 

Coming away now from my woodland walk now, and from that burly evergreen oak where time flew, I may now openly declare that it was, in its entirety, a true flight of fancy. Those hills, the river, the duck and deer are as fictitious as could be. My words though, my memories and their meaning are fixed upon reality: on real places, on genuine weather worn gardeners, and on fertile grounds where my boots once trod.

But why, for one who finds comfort in being so firmly rooted in the present, do I feel the need to recreate such a fantastical past – is there something I’m wishing to say or discover? Maybe I’m looking to draw attention to the delicate balance and associations that exist in nature, or to the importance I put upon awareness, recognition and value of such places.

Writing this way, I conclude, whilst in part a creative endeavour, is my way of singing the praise of just some of the evocative places that live in my heart. For sure I write in celebration of place, but also to record and understand a sense of my own history. In drawing down from the landscapes, gardens and people of my past, I can become more aware in the present, and the future may become somewhat clearer too.

As the fly is to the fish, the fish is to the otter, and as the acorn nourishes the deer, the tree binds and feeds the earthen bank on which it grows. I therefore write this way in recognition, in commemoration, and in reverence of nature.

Thank you for reading, words and image by Gary Webb.