Ancient yews

This morning, my parents and I braved the weather and visited an ancient yew forest. As we approached on the rubble-strewn track, the dead tangle of undergrowth around us looked decidedly unpromising, but we cut in on a little path and the forest just opened up into a cathedral-like space, quiet and sheltered from the biting wind outside.

There was something in that place that reminded me of the sea, like being in a forest of giant kelp while a storm raged far above on the surface. The branches creaked and groaned like galleons in full sail, and the susurrus of the leaves sounded like waves on a beach. The tortured shapes of the trunks and limbs resembled water-carved rock, and some even had patterns like the frothy bubbles of seawater creeping into rockpools.

It was a truly remarkable place, simultaneously eerie, peaceful and timeless. The trees were dark and a little frightening, but soft bright green moss carpeted the ground in clearings, making it seem almost as though earth and sky had been reversed.

There is a scout camp in the forest, we found the tree-ringed hollow where they light their fire. It must be a wonderful place to sit with friends, toasting marshmallows over a campfire and telling spooky stories.