Wednesday 24 September 2008

Fairy Steps


My mother said I never should,
Play with the fairies in the wood.

The autumn goldening sun shines outside the wood, but only slants through chinks in the lattice work of branches that bend over the ancient path through the woodland. Bramble bushes line the way, pale pink petals still clinging on, small fruit ripening. The blackberries aren't good this year; too much rain, although the paths now are dry. Slowly up and up, on and on and then a clearing where wild flowers poke through the tangle of low lying brambles. A look to the left, and yellow rock flashes through the ash trees, caught by the sun - Whin Scar. The crag builds up in height and I turn left into the clearing by the Fairy Steps. Along, and then up, on polish and jugs, the end of summer so I almost move nimbly, pulling and twisting, and then onto the top and swing back down the tree. Up again, next route, and ape back down. Repeat, explore, driven by the beat of the hammering of a woodpecker somewhere overhead. More routes, less climbed, starting through brambles which catch tear at my thin trousers and draw blood, and topping out into a covering of prickles, of holly and bramble and pine.

A scramble to the top, to watch the sun quickly vanish behind the Cartmel fells, a pink grapefruit sky and the rock drips orange as I descend the corpse route Fairy Steps.

Time to go now, before the woodland changes and the spirits emerge, before the trees bind together and the brambles snake over the paths and the holly bushes dance to shed their spikey leaves. Away, away!

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