Another green world

By Maxim Griffin.

You’ve been watching shadows pass across the curves of the uplands – an early haze lifting – the blossom’s gone and the chlorophyll is up – that first glimmer of a new season, warm enough for bare arms – the steady, slow circles of a red kite on high – something in the scent of the young nettles at your hips takes you way back – another summer in another century – no one around to see you slip from the sanctioned footpath.

When the ice finally retreated it cut the hills open and trees grew and here you are, crossing the threshold of the valley with a mind for one of those wild camps you read about in the Saturday papers – bluebells from Edwardian fiction do their thing, but it’s garlic you’re after as you duck under the first limbs of the lime wood.

The valley curls down – dark from the outside and soft underfoot – you curl down with it – up and under, half tumbling as a branch pulls at your collar – a graze – you turn to check and trip through the tangles – down to your knees, one hand in brambles – you tumble on.

Being watched
You’re clumsy and stung as your eyes adjust to the difference in light – it’s not shade, it’s opulence – the first taste of Technicolor and Errol Flynn is in the trees – the greenest green – you stop, nearly take a photograph but think better of it – the camera never does it justice – besides, you’re being watched.

You didn’t see the deer but she saw you and she’s standing still as marble, yet to decide whether or not to peg it – no sound, no movement, not even a – notification – the sound sends her leaping for cover – invisible suddenly – you don’t check it – horrors, elsewhere – you walk slower and more carefully – slow enough to hear your own pulse but she’s gone.

An oak has collapsed under its own magnificence but is still alive and surrounded by saplings – you ditch your bag and climb with the urgency of a teenager – up the damp trunk to the branches that still reach for the sun – a breath of wind and gooseflesh – the valley beneath you as though you were Herzog in the jungle – working your way from the crown to the roots puma style, upside down and parting limbs until you see where the fall has torn out a mass of chalk – see, the bones of the hill – a fistful to feel the marrow dip.

You follow your nose – down a scree of wet chalk to the blanket of ramsons – the smell is overwhelming, psychedelic even – a galaxy of tiny star flowers and the single most garlicky funk since that pizza you shared in Manchester all those years ago – that was a night – smiling at the memory as you pick leaves – you’re middle class now and middle-aged to boot, almost bound by duty to make your own pesto – this is the way – a bite to taste – the action of the allium around your mouth has an intensity close to burning – wow – a mental note to use sparingly.

Turning invisible
Signs of life – not recent – a heap of flints, some kind of stash for a renegade knapper perhaps – a ring of gritstone around a pit of ashes – someone had similar ideas – good – you examine the flints for the telltale marks of working – see, here, the bulbs of percussion along a razored flake – keep it – another lump – untouched and shapely – a natural figure, reclining – a form that goes from Henry Moore to the Venus of Willendorf – the light passes through her.

Every pheasant hiding in the woods takes off at once – a presence other than your own – officially you ought not to be here – you hear a motor – a 4×4 passing around the top of the wood – suddenly you’re Rogue Male with a rucksack full of scrumped garlic and stones – did someone speak? – sure someone said “alright Clive!” – time to move on – get out of sight, turn invisible the way the deer did – you catch a glimpse – fella in blue overalls at the ridge is talking to Clive on his phone and is oblivious to your trespass – not that there were any signs, mind you, there aren’t any paths either – you slip away in the other direction to where the trees grow thicker.

And thicker – ash, oak, sycamore, lime – the kind of glade to get druids excitable – moving light – sunbeam through green – a cliché perhaps but here is the quality of stained glass – imperfect, rippled, luminous – a moment or two to put aside the state of things – a moment or two in another green world – two pops of a shotgun far enough away to not matter brings you back into focus – the plan was to camp after all – here will do.

A simple set up – tiny tent, bedroll and sleeping bag – you set to making some food – a mysterious brand of Korean noodles on a miniature gas stove you’ve had since university – you even whittle a pair of chopsticks – this is all very civilised – that first lightning hot slurp hits the spot – wild garlic as garnish? Why not! Fewer meals are as perfect.

It’ll be a while until dark – you settle into your surroundings – no, no fire, don’t be daft – coffee with a jigger of something medicinal in, last of the birthday hooch put to good use – uh oh – movement – you turn the stove off to listen – a valley in Lincolnshire has turned into the last 10 minutes of Predator – you can’t see anything but you are very much not alone – a gentle footfall through the ramsons – you think you’ve been rumbled – silence – heartbeat – that fella in the blue overalls?

The doe’s behind you – you turn – freeze – she looks down at you – you with the last noodles still in your mouth – a moment – an exchange of puzzled looks – then she carries on – unrushed and unbothered.

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