Land: Essex 6

19th November, 2020

The day that my little brother died, I took a shortcut through St. John’s Churchyard — I had an appointment that I did not want to be late for and the bus had come to an almost standstill on the busy Lower Clapton Road. As I walked along the path where the row of horse chestnut trees stand tall and strong, I saw a shiny brown conker on the ground in front of me. It was the first one that I had seen that season and I stopped to pick it up, holding it in my hand as memories came flooding into my mind: memories from childhood of playing conkers with my brothers, with school friends, of boiling the finest specimens in vinegar to make them stronger, of piercing them and passing string through the hole so that that they could be swung in battle. This conker was fine and a perfect shape and size for battling. As I stood there, I heard a loud thud, as another conker fell at my feet. Then another, and another, and another fell, all really close to me. I looked up to see what was dislodging them from the branch but nothing seemed to be causing them to fall. Then another conker landed firmly on the crown of my head. Ouch. A woman passing on her bicycle stopped to see if I was ok, saying she heard the thud as it landed. I rubbed my head, telling her that I was fine and looked up again — but no more conkers fell. I continued with my day, rubbing my head often as a lump emerged on my head where it landed, reminding me of this strange occurrence. That evening, my little brother had a heart attack. His heart was restarted by the paramedics and he was taken to the hospital, where his heart stopped beating again. Again they restarted it. Again it stopped. Again they restarted it and again it stopped. Again and again, in all, six times, his heart stopped. Six times the conkers fell around me. Finally, he was only being kept alive by the drugs and the ventilator. The next day the decision was made to turn it off and what life remained slipped slowly away. But I did not forget the conkers. I remembered later that day that it was me who taught my little brother how to play conkers, how to choose the best specimen, how to battle. I wondered if the trees were warning me, preparing me for the events that would change my world. Were the trees communicating with me? Such a thing is only possible in fairy stories and myths I told myself, but when walking in the Forest, under the canopy of trees, I feel protected and safe. As if nature somehow knows. Knows something about me, and why I walk among the trees.

Last week was busy with work and family and I did not get to the Forest. This week I was determined to go. I was disappointed to find the rain falling heavily when I woke but I took my time and waited, for the rain did stop. As the clouds cleared my heart felt lighter and I hurried to the train station, knowing that there was not much daylight left. I did not even consider where I would walk — I just wanted to be immersed and to feel the ground beneath my feet. To see how much the Forest had changed and whether the leaves had fallen. What colours would I see this time? I was excited and smiled to myself as the train carried me East. Emerging from the station, I could feel the chill in the air and I was grateful I had brought my hat and some hot coffee. I wanted to wait until it was dark before returning. I wanted to stay out for as long as possible today — I had been cooped up in my tiny flat for an age.

Muddy puddles, boggy paths, bare branches, orange sunlight and brown — the trees beyond the Plain look brown. The golden leaves that had been dancing in the wind when I was here before have all but fallen — a few remain, still dancing. I dive quickly into the canopy, black mud sloshing under my feet. Within seconds I can see — I can see how much has changed. I am stepping into another world, another season, another time, another place. It takes my breath away. It makes me weep a little for it is so beautiful, magical, unreal, surreal, yet I know it is real. I am here. In this time and place. Children are laughing in the distance, as if they are also entranced. It is just remarkable. I stand and turn around myself, in awe. Golden sunlight kisses the tops of the trees, where leaves still hang. Sunlight streams through and illuminates the leaves on the ground — sharp and soft at the same time. I do not notice the mud that I am stepping in, or the noise of the road. I am transported.

I so notice my breathing slowing, my weight shifting to the back of my heels — I walk slowly — no need to rush — I do not need to walk far — this is enough. This is more than enough to restore my soul and heal my hurt today. I cannot believe my luck. How did I find such a place? How is it possible to feel so much joy from just being here, in the Forest? The track is lost in the leaf fall and the mud but it matters not. I wander aimlessly aware that the path is near by and I can easily find my way back. I am becoming used to this place, this small section of the Forest. I am beginning to map it in my head. There is the swing — I pause and sit on it letting my gaze drift — black trunks, saplings thriving now the canopy is clearing, grass is sprouting and ferns almost entirely brown surround me as I sit and idle away the time. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go for I am here already. Exactly where it is I need to be. I walk a little further to Cuckoo Brook and sit on a fallen trunk to just be. The sunlight is low in the sky and illuminates the water so that it reflects its surroundings, magically creating alternative worlds, inverted and enticing. I could stay here forever.

I sit for what seems like a really long time, thinking of nothing at all now. But I know the day is drawing to a close and I have to turn around and wend my way back to the Plain. My hands are becoming cold so I drink some coffee before walking slowly back the way I came. I take a different route so that I can stay in the Forest for as long as possible, keeping the Plain within sight to my left, and sit again before finally emerging as the sun is setting. I can see the moon, crescent shaped and bright as the light is failing. I see the tree with the golden leaves silhouetted against the sky and watch as the sun sets to the West, over the expanse of the Golf course. I make my way back across the boggy Plain, finding that the noise of the road does not bother me at all today. I have risen somewhere above. Nothing can touch me up here I think as I make my way back to the train station. I feel at peace.

Calm and relaxed I sit on the train, not minding the smell of disinfectant and the darkness outside. All I can see out of the window is a reflection of the inside of the train, of me. I look relaxed. I am. Walking home is gentle and easy. Home feels safe and welcoming. I make tea and listen to some fine music, holding the feeling of being there, of being with the trees, inside the magical Forest. I wonder if I can keep this feeling — hold it fast so that it does not fade. We will see. I consider what nature has given me today. I feel wealthy. I feel fine. I feel rooted. I am connected.