Wandering through the wood, meandering without meaning, looking, looking for a location, a mood, a quiet, significant place where I can be still, where I can sketch and at the same time be aware of the wood's environment. I listen. The inquisitive flit flit movement reveals the red breast of a robin, it approaches, cocks it's head looking at the disturbed leaf litter. Blackbirds noisily chase each other through the heavy dark woodland floor. On a previous visit a buzzard ghosted through the tree tops, silently moving on huge wings. The ground here, in places hides warrens, just visible, making progress, a little tricky. Here we have a scene I like to come across. It is often a decaying picture, yet here we have trees which are alive. Often, dead fallen giants decay graciously, a carpet of bright green moss enveloping their trunks. The bark possibly retains water and creates a micro-climate of damp which suits the moss growth. Young saplings can be seen with moss attaching to the lower part of their stems. This is a fragile place and I am looking forward to visiting throughout the year.
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