Trees

Today we went for a walk. I rooted around the garage for my hiking boots, and found that after my Confido adventures, they are now so filthy they have become fossils. The laces had such a thick crust of mud that tying them was like trying to fold uncooked tagliatelle. Nevertheless, I did manage to secure them.
On our travels, we came across a huge walled garden, hidden in among a forest, with no manor house to accompany it. It was quite eerie, if I'm honest - it seemed very much at odds with the landscape, a strictly square area sparsely filled with a few symmetrically planted trees and some trimmed bushes, in amongst an untamed, thriving, colourful Eden. I've never been a fan of the gardens that so often surround huge houses - they're too formal, too empty, to large. Too open, especially. A garden is quite a personal thing, and in my mind the best gardens are small, covered in trees, with endless secret alcoves and hidden seats, flowing streams and nymph-like statues concealed by the yew trees.
Yew trees are wonderful. Prized by the Celtic druids for healing properties, and yet seen as the wood of death. They seem to encapsulate their environment - the branches and leaves positively drip down, silky and flowing and supernatural. Moving on.
Walking through woodland in autumn is always quite beautiful. I've never been a fan of nature in spring (lambs and daffodils are so saccharine) or in summer (the air is hot and sluggish, yet there is so much liveliness among the insects), but in autumn and winter it's quite a magical set of surroundings. The overwhelming green is swept away to be replaced by a silent forest fire of oranges and reds. Thick, suffocating foliage drops to reveal the more stoic but infinitely more interesting sight of gnarled trunk and twisted roots. There is an earthy smell that feels more natural than that of any blossom.
One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen in nature was when I was walking in another wood nearby a few months ago; it was on the side of a steep hill, and was quite dense. Due to this, sunlight only came from one direction, where it shined on the side of the hill. This caused quite an astounding effect of all the trees' branches facing away from the hill - reaching out for sunlight desperately. An quite gothic anthropomorphic twist. Made a little darker by the winter months, as there were no leaves. The branches curled like hands.
Our route back took us through the graveyard of our local church. We stopped to have a look at the graves. Each one was individually fascinating - the date, the name, the font. There were a few that dated back to the mid 1700s, which all started with the words "Here lieth". My Dad found one that detailed the difference between those times and now most effectively - it described the resting place of a man from Yorkshire, who as such was known as a 'traveller'.
Being in Scouts such a long time, it occurred to me that I've spent quite a good deal of my childhood playing here, hiding amongst the dead men, careless fingers grabbing onto solemn stone. Even now, standing there evokes a sense of either muted sadness or peace, I can't work out which. They're often interlinked, I suppose. In the wise words of a woman who isn't real, "Sad is happy for deep people." Today's been a nice, peaceful day. I hope you have many of these for yourself over the years.