Tracks show where man, dog, deer and fox have previously passed, while virgin snow begs to left as such. To either side, fallen branches, sawn-off trunks and standing deadwood take on a sculptural brilliance, a combination of wood, snow and ice, blending together. Rough and jagged edges have been made smooth, deformities removed and interesting twists and curves highlighted. Even brambles take on a different character when dusted with snow. A snow-covered yew, its branches hanging down under the weight, stands bowed amongst the bare trees. For others the weight has been too much; a tree has fallen across the path, the snow having proved too much for the exposed shallow roots. Saplings emerge through the carpet, the sooty buds of ash contrasting with the white.
Meanwhile, the shoots of bluebells, anemones and primroses lie hidden beneath awaiting the thaw that we all know will come. Snow is one of the few things in nature that can completely transform the landscape without leaving devastation in its wake. It has even leant a magical air to mundane, everyday objects: a wooden 5-bar gate, plastic fencing, a collapsed shed, iron fence poles, a derelict outbuilding in the meadow beside the entrance to the wood.
The silver-grey of a giant beech tree is enhanced by its coating of white, the twisting network of limbs and branches, invisible beneath its cloak of summer leaves, are brought into stark vision; I could spend an age, possibly multiple ages, trying to follow the intricate network, enthralled by nature’s ability to create this complex giant, unique in its structure. On top of the snow around its base, the last of the deeply bronzed leaves has fallen, fringed white and dusted, as though with icing sugar, and made crisp by the frost. They appear as the first tentative dabs of an artist upon a virgin canvas. They are a reward for those who walk with their heads bowed against the chill wind.
Silver birch trees, the Ladies of the Woods, have lost none of their charm and elegance, their silver-white bark, with deep dark fissures prominent in this mostly monochrome world. From a distance, their crowns appear as a purple haze, while the delicate twigs of closer trees merge into a charcoal smudge against the pale winter sky. But within this dark and white world there are splashes of colour, easily overlooked throughout the rest of the year, but now resplendent. Ferns, brambles and ivy make a welcome appearance. However, it is the holly, with its shining green leaves and bright red berries, that provides the continuity between the diminishing light of one year and the increasing light of the next.
I have followed the journey of this wood through the cycle of the seasons, from its awakening in spring and the display of wildflowers, through the summer shade and coolness and the golden colours of autumn to the stark beauty of winter with its covering of snow. It is a journey I have made many times, the surroundings so familiar that it is like visiting an old friend, and one which I hope to be able to visit many times to come, for even in the smallest wood the changes are endless and there is always something new to experience. Within its confines time is not measured in hours or days, instead it is dawn or dusk, day or night, it is spring or summer or autumn or winter. Years pass in the blink of eye for the older inhabitants that were born here scores of years before I came. It is humbling to reflect that they will still be here long after I have gone.