Home

You’ve come to me with a heavy heart, seeking understanding, perspective, a little peace. I listen, I understand, I struggle for words.

But come, let me take you over the meadows to that old oak woodland across the valley. You’ll need your wellies, and bring a flask of tea. I’ll take cake, a small machete, a postcard and a pen. 

First we must duck along this hazel hedge, before pausing to admire the distant mountains as we negotiate the old stile. From here we’ll wander down along the lush bank of the stream until we can join the sheep trail across the reeds. Overhead, red kites glide and whistle the opening bars of The Good the Bad and the Ugly, whilst a pair of ravens krark their territorial disdain. Very soon, we’ll rest awhile upon the broad throne of gnarled roots beneath the ancient oak that guards the entrance to the wood. 

By now you may be wondering why we have come here, when early summer offers such a profusion of more accessible treats. Before us now lies a dense and unwelcoming tangle of fallen boughs, smothered under thick mosses and explosive fountains of ferns. Threaded through this lush profusion, a conspiracy of brambles sprawl low to trip and tumble intruders, whilst fresh young leaves quiver and fidget overhead, and a cuckoo breaks the sanctum silence. 

It’s unlikely that you noticed the crumbling gate post from which the robin announced our arrival, obscured as it is by the sapling that springs from its splintered core. We’ve been observed by our hosts, most of whom will retreat to hide and peek; some will boldly escort us into their dappled world. 

Now, as your eyes adjust to the green spectrum beyond, you can hardly miss the gaudy gold flashes of a huge laburnum tree just beyond the tanglewoods. And were you to squint a little further, you might see the hint of a tottering greystone gable, and close by a still proud and upright chimney caught in the tightening embrace of a willow. Maybe now you’re beginning to catch the taste of the quest, as my blade bites apologetically into the first bramble barricade.

As we get closer, the moss conceals rough spills of fallen masonry, where trees have burst through walls and windows, their timbers long since consumed by the tendrils of time. One big old tree lies nearby, newly tumbled, its roots bared, still clutching its first broad grasp of soil and stones. Once a warm strong backrest for a tired worker, a bearer of acorns and swings, provider of shade, and of logs for a fireside long cold. 

Much time has passed here.

The tree having blocked our way, our final approach must be up through the stream, and around a bend where a scatter of humble pot shards and a chunk of willow pattern wink up through the pristine gravel. At last, we splash out from the shadows into the bright sunlit arena of a bygone dream. A humble cottage reposes, roofless and forgotten, tucked into a broad bay of the singsong crystal stream, whose banks still flaunt a tumble of violets and primroses, and a  serendipity of forget-me-nots.

A broad slate step proclaims a doorway that now stands forever open to all callers; a deep phalanx of nettles challenges their entry. Yet, so strong is the nurturing spirit of this abandoned shell, that it can still deliver a potent welcome to a respectful visitor. The floor within is deeply carpeted with the leafy mulch of countless autumns. The walls are lavishly flocked in shades of tender green mosses, and a single spectacular fern graces one corner. Several quartz rocks sparkle randomly amongst the sturdy masonry. A remnant of slate mantel still attempts to dignify the simple hearth that lies long cold beneath the teetering chimney. A single small window keeps a tireless eye on the stream and beyond. On the sill, and all upon the ground outside, and cluttering the eddies of the stream, a riotous smother of yellow laburnum petals have drifted from the heavily laden tree that begs to give its name to this place.

There are several tenants. An elegant pink and green hawkmoth clings to the mossy wall. A wren chitters around the window, and in a deep recess long vacated by a rotted beam, sits a perfect moss-lined nest cradling three small blue eggs. No wonder the robin follows us everywhere. This seems a good time for us to squat by the old hearth for our tea, and share some cake with him. You’ll find cups and saucers up the chimney where I hid them last year. 

As the delicate old china tinkles in our hands, we ponder on the memories and values long marinaded into these stones. Hopes and fears, feasts and fasts, songs and stories, joys and griefs, life and love. Outside, the rippling continuum of the stream challenges our frail concept of time and place. I rummage for my pen to write a little haiku blessing to hide in the wall - my passing tribute to this quintessence of home, this humble place of peace and strength and sanctuary:

three little robins

will soon add their story here

safe in your keeping