An essay in three poems
First Impressions of Bouldnor Forest
Bag packed: notepad,
plant ID guide, smartphone.
I step up to the gate which blocks cars
from encroaching further.
Locked.
My companions and I form a motley trio –
writer, husband/carer, videographer.
The locked gate doesn’t stop us;
we sidle around the gap to the other side.
With my trusty hiking stick gripped in hand
(more suited to trekking than my standard cane),
I take comfort in knowing a spare
is folded down in my husband’s backpack,
prepared in case my chronic pain
thinks it’s okay to flare.
With a photo of the way ahead
snapped quickly on my phone,
my documentation begins.
Warning signs by pipework seize my attention
as the other two wander.
A concoction of intrigue and confusion
swirls inside my brain.
The human tells here
are more obvious than I imagined.
Light rain dampens the ground,
seasoning the air with the sweetness
of leaf decay and soil.
Birds call in the distance;
familiar, but their identity escapes me.
I switch to sound recorder mode on my phone
and gather the song of a minute.
Mental note to research at home.
From left and right, lush greenery motivates us on.
Fruiting bramble, saplings, bracken, wildflowers,
then—I stop,
unable to do anything but.
A lone skyscraper of needles
and thick, ragged bark, set in a mini clearing,
dominates my attention.
I forget to breathe.
ID check: confirmation, Scots pine.
Reluctantly, I leave to focus on other flora.
An oak with spiked leaves
instead of the usual, rounded lobes
evokes the question,
yet my guide doesn’t cover it.
Snap! Image added to gallery. More research later.
The rain eases.
Wires. A tall telephone pole.
That human footprint again.
I turn a corner and there it blooms:
a small residence.
That is something I didn’t expect to see.
A private home? A previous ranger’s lodgings?
Fenced off for renovations,
I cannot guess how long work has been halted,
how long the shell has lain empty.
Ahead is the promise
of a wealth of woodland,
yet another locked gate prevents entry.
No sidling past this time.
The alternative, solid as a road
with traces of other buildings tucked behind bushes,
is where we head
but a small wooden bridge
calls to me from the side,
hardly noticeable. I noticed.
Taking us through pendulous sedge,
it shakes us out by a small field, mottled brass
from the dry spells of late.
A butterfly I’ve not encountered before
drifts close as I pause
to settle my aching muscles, unruly joints.
It lands by my feet, wings spread
as if ready for its close up. I oblige.
A water bottle is offered to me, a necessary prompt
considering I frequently forget to hydrate.
The air’s moisture has cleared,
and rising warmth urges my feet to swell like moss
clinging to its last drink –
a response I’m all too familiar with.
Taking refuge in the shade, a drone is unveiled.
Carefully, considerately, our videographer films
areas I cannot reach.
Meanwhile, my exploration turns
to the beginnings of two other trails.
Finding A: a single golden Werther’s Original wrapper.
Finding B: a Red Admiral feeding
on a fluffy bobble of white flowers.
Fatigue is overshadowed by the adrenaline
of being in a new location.
I know I’ve trekked too long
without break,
know the consequences will hit
as soon as I cross the threshold of my front door.
Still, trees, heather, coast, grasshoppers, butterflies –
all pull me into a cocoon of wonder,
thrilling to my core.
Walking back to our start,
conversations turn to childhood.
Old truths of school bullying,
from both students and a teacher,
leak from my mouth without
the tears and hurt normally accompanying them.
Is it because of the forest’s blanket of peace?
I’m unsure, but this I am certain of:
the energy here hums in my veins,
and will do long after I leave.
Return to Bouldnor Forest
Arriving by bus, my husband and I
hop off at the closest stop
and trudge along the grassy verge
to the entrance.
Open sky, enthusiastic sun.
Traffic growls into the forest,
chasing at our heels
for a good five minutes,
settling to a soft, ever-present purr
(seasoned with the occasional aeroplane).
Whether it’s due to our unhurried pace,
the brightness of the day,
or the comfort
of returning to a place already explored,
calm rises from the ground,
flowing up my body
and relaxing left-over travel anxiety.
Birds sing from both sides of the path,
while the air ripples with insects.
Previously, my eye line was the focus,
pulling me in with its collection
of leafy, floral textures,
but now I look up.
Behind the shrubbery, svelte trunks
practicing interpretive dance
form a crowd to watch us.
Venturing further along the main path
instead of following our previous detour,
we’re guided by a team of butterflies –
Speckled Woods, Common Blues, Gatekeepers,
Meadow Browns, Medium and Large Whites,
a Red Admiral or two –
eager to prove their knowledge of the land.
A sign reading ‘Pedestrian Refuge’
hides within a bush.
Before I can ponder its presence,
a Jersey Tiger moth rises
to meet us as we pass.
Sweat builds on my skin.
My body warns me
to be gentle this time, but how can I
when there’s so much to explore
and no energy bar
indicating my limits?
Pacing has never been easy.
Rich, tranquil places make me forget
I can no longer walk far
without my muscles quivering more
than the low-growing flora
concealing a foraging animal.
The area is full of dragonflies,
light brown to vibrant red, flitting a foot ahead
whenever we approach.
The ponds I’ve heard about
must be near.
On this section of path,
heather and dwarf gorse cluster everywhere,
with wild grasses, thistles, teasels, and flowers
in strict competition.
Surprise firs poke up merrily beside us,
as if someone stored
all their retired Christmas trees here.
Heady air swaddles us.
A much-needed rest stop appears
in the form of a bench
overlooking the ocean.
We’re in luck: the ferries,
one from Yarmouth, one from Lymington,
meet for their afternoon catch-up;
for a brief instant, they appear
as one vessel.
Then the eclipse passes.
Refuelled from a light lunch,
we gaze over the edge of the landslip,
attempting to figure out how far
from our prior viewing point we are.
I know, somewhere,
there is a path to the ocean.
The resources I’ve gathered
and the pull of the water
indicate we’re close.
My husband, ever a map in his head,
suspects a route we found before
but did not venture down
may lead us to the beach.
How to get there
from our current position?
A narrow walkway along the edge of the slip,
weaving through the trees,
takes us to ground we recognise.
There, at the end, surrounded
by grazing fields reaching to the feet of pine soldiers,
is a stile.
My snap-crackle-and-pop knees object;
still, up and over I go.
Two hiking sticks in hand now
(that spare
the most valuable item we packed),
I steady myself on uneven ground,
aware of how my unstable ankles
yearn to dip and twist
with every step.
Grasshopper song
has charmed us throughout this journey,
musicians mostly unseen.
Yet swiftly, we’re graced
with a close-up sighting of a common field hopper,
and a beat later, what should scurry
from under dry groundcover
but a lizard!
My squeal of delight
hits like fireworks in the air.
One more stile, X marks the spot,
and we’re on the trail I’m after.
Thick roots knot and writhe underfoot.
Navigating them is akin to a tango –
intense, purposeful, nerve-wracking.
My feet are smoking: dust
kicked up from the ground.
As the green begins to hesitate,
we come to a patch of beach.
Large trees, cast sideways on the pebbles,
grey and dry as ghosts
(with whole root balls intact),
look closer to leviathan bones
than old forest residents.
A turn of the corner, cross of the bridge
through the rushes,
and we enter a haven of hazel,
their quiet, long limbs and rounded leaves
creating dappled light
while sparkles of sea wink
between them.
Fat mushrooms chuckle at our arrival.
Then, the curtain draws back entirely,
revealing the vastness of blue;
distant land is a mere line.
A speeding, roaring monster
races on the frothing surface,
outrunning invisible foes,
while more spectral trees haunt the shore.
Not just one or two,
a complete garden of them.
I take a moment
to appreciate their structure
and acknowledge their passing,
eventually admitting today’s quest
is at an end.
We spend as long as possible
admiring our surroundings –
the wash of colour, the play of movement –
forced to move on and seek respite
by my crying anatomy.
The fatigue and aches will temporarily worsen
thanks to this adventure.
My memories will ignore them
and store only the joy.
And joy there most certainly is
in wondering the woodland with my other half.
A Group Connecting with Bouldnor Forest
A dozen gather by the gate,
an equal mix of adults and young people.
Some acquainted, some not, all eager
to see what the morning brings.
Safety announcement first, then
I reveal the main quest;
my voice swirls into the breeze
as curious, hesitant eyes engage.
The task I give is simple: observe,
trust your senses, report back.
The tune livens further
when our videographer weaves his own notes
into the overture,
vowing to record nature in her best dress
alongside her onlookers’ reactions.
Off into the wilderness we go,
acorns popping, gravel crunching
under a train of feet.
Already, the youngest has gathered
a mighty wooden wand
with which he indicates his interest.
Pocket cameras collect interesting scenes,
mementos and practice for artistic gazes.
There’s mention
of how different the forest appears
when time is taken to analyse its battle of textures:
spikes jousting against lobes,
slender blades parried by serrated rounds.
Light sprinkles the area, igniting creativity
in our videographer’s mind.
In slow motion, he captures molten bronze
dripping through to the underside of bracken,
gives a superhero glow to a teen’s hair,
examines the intricacies of a girl’s pupils
when hit by brilliant rays.
(Though he does, however, miss
the butterfly making a perfect landing
on the small of his back.)
From my place at the rear of the party,
I watch all, fascinated
by each individual’s interactions
with the environment.
The smallest details are scrutinised,
alerts called
when happening across unusual finds.
With the air particularly full of song,
birds zip between trees,
hop among leaf skeletons, rustle
under every splash of tall shrubbery.
Our casual pace
allows everyone to absorb
the pattern of trills,
miss treading in the evident scat,
and kindly reminds my ankles to stop threatening
to throw me on the floor.
At a natural pause, I enquire
what treasures the others have noticed.
Tentatively, the young people offer their answers:
tree silhouettes against an azure sky,
elevenses sun. Flowers
and their deep, extensive layers;
much more to a blush of colour
than one might think.
Wavy, walnut-like galls on acorns,
perhaps signalling the presence
of a specific insect species.
Branches spreading overhead,
mirroring the formation of neurons.
Horsetails, the plant of prehistoric times,
flagging the sides of our path.
Bitter sloes growing casually beside us.
Most surprising to all
is the evidence of humankind,
from the empty house
channelling gingerbread-witch vibes
to the small building and sheds past locked gates.
Compacted earth from the weight of cars,
with a central tuft of green;
occasional electrical pings
which I’m unable
to determine the source of.
Once owned by the Ministry of Defence,
this land carries strong tales.
A protected site
that we are barred from viewing
holds the first example of concrete
built in layers.
Yet the forest’s biggest secret
is that it is not an ancient thing.
Trees were planted for timber.
Before, heathland ruled,
and maintains its power
even with the many trunks it now cares for.
Clear to each of us
is how everything here built by humans
has been gorged on
and held prisoner by the wild,
and the wild is unwilling to let go.
We take a break to refresh,
collect our experiences.
The sun calls down to us, oven-hot,
shade elusive despite the tangles of leaves.
A grasshopper on someone’s leg fascinates,
until our videographer
whips out his drone camera
(my second viewing of this peculiar creature).
Within a beat, it takes flight,
echoing the dragonflies zooming past our heads.
It regards us with glass eyes,
arm LEDs alternating
between glaring red and serene green.
It evokes scenes from dystopian fiction,
where nature rules
and the majority of humankind
is observed remotely
by a collective of powerful individuals.
An odd reflection on a peaceful day like this,
and we need not fear the drone’s watchfulness –
skilfully piloted with permission
and constant care for wildlife,
it poses no threat to us or our surroundings.
The group, at my askance,
pours over my poetry,
my keenness to hear their thoughts
as evident as their gentle, firm focus.
Quiet settles over us, printed words whispered
under breaths.
Too soon, we must leave, speak our thanks
to the guardian pines and oaks,
wave to the hazels, the brambles,
mossy limbs, and murmurs of minute blooms.
As we all ready to return to our daily lives,
I sense the satisfaction
in everyone’s bones, having spent
the past two hours at one
with peridot, turquoise, copper, and gold.