Beyond the Forest...

Walking along this particular road, I often stop to lean on the greying wooden gate.  It swings inward over a cattle grid and opens into a narrow dirt track overhung by trees and edged by long grasses and wild flowers.

 

I can see that the track disappears around a bend entering an Autumnal forest.  Twisted branches lock together overhead and cast dappled shadows across the ground.  The trees spread out on either side of the track as far as the eye can see and beneath them bracken and moss add colour and fragrance to the forest floor.

 

I long to discover what is just around that bend and to follow the track through the thick mysterious stand of trees, to explore what lies beyond.

 

I can hear the sea in the distance and smell its briny fragrance on a gentle breeze that ripples through the topmost branches of the trees.  Despite a hand painted sign inscribed on the gate telling me that I am entering a private place, I slip a leather strap from around the post, push it open and enter the shadowy forest.  

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Light filters down through the canopy above and flickers between the trees as I walk briskly along the track. This forest has clearly been planted out formally many years before with a mixture of European trees.  Here and there a native grows incongruously amongst the maples, liquidambar and ghostly silver birch trunks.  The floor of the forest is littered with coloured leaves and they drift softly down catching in the dappled light like golden coins.

 

It is an unusual sight so close to the coast.  These Autumn colours belong in the colder, more inland places.  It adds to the strangeness and mystery of the day.

 

Something russet moves between the trees blending perfectly with the red tones of autumn leaves.  I turn quickly and it freezes in its silent tracks, calmly staring back at me with golden eyes.

 

It is beautiful.  The healthiest fox that I have ever seen.  Foxes aren’t welcome in this part of the world.  They are introduced predators that kill poultry and small native animals and birds.  Farmers shoot them or set bates to poison them.  They are often lean and mangey with wicked pointed faces but this creature is not at all like that.

 

From its luxurious red pelt and white bushy tail, four black socks and black snout edged by white  and flowing in a snowy ruffle down its throat, it is exquisite.  A bird calls from the other side of the forest and the spell is broken.  The fox disappears through the bracken in the direction of the sound.

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I continue along the narrow dirt track as it winds deeper into the deciduous forest.  I notice that there are plants growing amongst the usual wild flowers and grasses along the verge that have almost certainly been planted there for their beauty and I can’t resist the urge to stop and pick myself a small bouquet.  Amongst the Queen Anne’s Lace and native grasses, Silky Purple Flags, Blue violas and forget-me-nots bloom in striking contrast to the Autumn colours of the trees.

 

The sound of the sea grows louder as I round a bend in the track to discover that I have reached the edge of the forest.  The trees end in a neat curve and the track continues  up a gentle rise towards the ocean.

 

As I stand within the the shelter of the trees, I see the fox break clear of the forest to dash up the hill towards a small white cottage surrounded by a wild garden.

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A cry comes from the fox as it reaches the top of the hill and a moment later the door of the cottage opens and a tall slender woman steps through the garden gate.

 

From the shelter of the Forest below I watch as she leans downs so that the fox can leap into her arms.  She hugs him to her stroking him and crooning to him as if he were a kitten.

 

It makes a strange and beautiful spectacle, the women and the fox, the picturesque white cottage surrounded by its wild garden and even the hillside sloping up towards the sea that breaks itself on the cliff face below.

 

The land surrounding the cottage has been laid out with a small fruit orchard and a vegetable garden.  There is even a few rows of grape vines following the contour of the hill.  Chickens peck in the garden at the woman’s feet displaying no fear of the fox at all.

 

Spellbound, I watch from the trees, not quite believing the extraordinary scene.  Something wild calls out from the forest behind me, perhaps a vixen?  The woman and the fox turn in unison to look in my direction.  I draw back behind a tree and watch as she gently lowers the fox to the ground and goes back into the cottage closing the door behind her.

 

Now the fox is running through the grass down the hill towards me.  He stops for a moment and stares at me with his golden, almond shaped eyes.  He lifts his snout and sniffs the air for my scent.  Clearly satisfied that I am a friend, he steps lightly passed and disappears once more into the bracken.

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I come every day for the following week.  Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon and finally as the moon begins to rise over the sea.  I walk quickly through the forest, impatient to see the cottage, the woman and the fox. I watch from the forest, absorbed in each enchanting scene.

 

It is different each time I visit.  On the first day I come in the morning, following the edge of the forest until I have a better view.  The slender form of the woman can be seen kneeling in her vegetable patch, pulling weeds from the rich soil.  She has a wide brimmed, straw hat on her head to protect her face from the Autumn sun and her pale blond hair lies in a long braid over one shoulder.

 

Although her vegetable garden is some distance away, I can see that she grows cabbages, carrots and pumpkins.  The pumpkins sprawl untidily at the edge of the patch, bright splashes of orange displaying the generosity of her crop.

 

The fox is never far away.  He lies sunning himself on the stone pathway in front of the cottage, watching the woman while she works.  They are completely at ease with one one another.

 

I sit down in the long grass and lean my back against a large oak tree to one side of the track.  The fox sniffs the air.  He knows that I am here.  Stepping lightly he moves to sit protectively beside the woman in her garden and stares straight across the the distance to my hiding place.  She murmurs something comforting to him stroking his russet fur and he lies down beside her.

 

An hour passes and then another.  I sit in the warmth of the Autumn sun with my back to the gnarled trunk of the oak, the woman finishes weeding and fills a basket with ripe vegetables and the fox lies sleeping amongst the cabbages.  We are at peace, we three.

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It is mid afternoon on the following day before I am able to visit again.  The afternoon sun light slants sideways through the trees creating stripes of shadow across the track.  I have packed my sketch book and pencils along with a thermos and a muffin in my satchel and can’t wait to fill my artists eye with the beauty of the picturesque little farm and its extraordinary inhabitants.   I pick a posy of forget-me-nots on my way through the forest and tuck them into the top pocket of my jacket.

 

When I reach the edge of the forest I can see that the woman is working in the orchard.  She is wearing her straw hat, slanted against the sun, her shining hair braided and lying against the curve of her back.  The sleeves of her long colourful dress are pushed back above her elbows revealing slender forearms, brown from long hours working in the sun.

 

As always, her elegant, willowing figure creates a perfect element in the landscape as she reaches up to pick ripe apples from her trees to place carefully into a wicker basket at her feet.  My fingers itch to begin a drawing.

 

I scan the orchard for a sight of the fox.  He is honing his hunting prowess, slinking from shadow to shadow through the orchard, closing in on the basket of apples.  He springs suddenly, landing on his prey and tipping the basket so that shiny red apples roll away down the hill.

 

The woman scolds him but patiently retrieves the fruit, giving him a quick scratch to show that there are no hard feelings.  She walks back up the hill with her full basket of apples and disappears into a small timber shed in the cottage garden.  Returning to the orchard with her empty basket, she begins work on the next apple tree and I settle my back against the oak and begin to draw.

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