I look for the entrance to my piece of woodland. Opposite the ash is where I dive, into the darkness under the beech trees. I lose my way again thinking next time I should leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs……. Dead birch litter the floor, fungi making the most of the harvest. Up above the wind rustles, shakes and sways the uppermost branches of the oak and beech and birch. But not the larch. There are three larch trees close by and they remain quite still, silent. They are different to everything else here with their jaggy limbs and interesting angles and shaggy frondling of needle leaves that are surprisingly soft to the touch. The outsiders in British woodland they are not native but were introduced in the 1600’s. Their seeds are eaten by red squirrels and in folklore they were said to protect against enchantment. That might be handy, particularly if I do keep losing my way like Gretel.
