Easter Monday Journeying
A Day of Iron, Earth, and Sky
The day began at home — a quieter kind of creation.
The pergola has been slowly taking shape, and today I turned my attention to the metalwork. I painted it black, bringing it into alignment with the wood. There’s something satisfying about that — when separate materials begin to speak the same visual language. It feels less constructed, more grown.
After that, a short visit to the gym. Functional. Grounding. Nothing remarkable — just part of the rhythm.
But the real day began afterwards.
Into Abbotts Wood
I arrived around 12:30.
Antlered crown on my head.
Suede skirt around my waist.
There’s always a moment — stepping from car to path — where the worlds meet. Today, that threshold felt easy. Natural.
A few people passed early on, and there were comments about the crown — simple, positive, unforced. No tension. Just acknowledgement.
Then the forest opened up and, as often happens, it became quiet. Sparse. Spacious.
With the paths quiet, I let go of the last layer and walked as I am.
I walked my usual route at first, but the forestry work has changed the land. The machinery has churned the ground into deep pools of thick, wet clay — foot-deep in places. Heavy, gripping mud that holds rather than yields.
Where the Ground is Broken
There is a difference between a living forest floor and one that has been torn open.
In the undisturbed woods, the ground carries you.
Layers of leaf, soil, and time soften each step. It yields, it supports, it receives. Walking barefoot there feels effortless — not because it is easy, but because it is in relationship. The land and the body understand one another.
But where the machines have passed, that relationship is broken.
The layers are gone.
Stripped back. Churned together into something dense and heavy.
What was once living structure becomes thick clay — hard, resistant, almost lifeless. It does not receive the foot; it grips it. It does not support; it drags. Every step becomes effort.
And walking through it, you feel the difference immediately.
Not just physically — but symbolically.
This is what happens when something living is reduced to function.
When the slow accumulation of layers — of time, of softness, of interconnection — is disrupted for the sake of efficiency or extraction, what remains may still be earth, but it is no longer alive in the same way.
The forest floor is no longer a conversation.
It becomes a surface to cross.
Barefoot and Unarmoured
Walking barefoot over that churned ground was challenging.
Branches. Broken debris. Uneven footing.
Each step had to be chosen.
There’s no autopilot in that. No drifting. You are either present, or you stumble.
And in that, there is something revealing.
Because this is not just about the land.
When we are layered — softened by experience, by connection, by presence — life carries us. There is flow. Movement feels natural.
But when those layers are stripped away — when we become hardened, compressed, reduced — everything becomes effort. Each step feels heavier. Less fluid. Less alive.
The ease is gone.
Not because the world has changed…
…but because the relationship has.
New Paths
I saw a couple of people deeper in — nothing said. No reaction. Just a passing of paths. That quiet neutrality that, in many ways, feels more accepting than words.
On the return, I discovered something unexpected — a new route. A subtle divergence from the main trackways, but enough to change the experience entirely.
Less travelled. Less seen.
More space.
It means I can extend that sense of freedom — not needing to return to the main path quite so quickly. The forest offering another way through.
The Ascent to Mount Caburn
Later in the afternoon, I drove over to Mount Caburn.
Arrived as the day was beginning to lean towards evening.
At the summit, the wind was stronger than expected — not harsh, but insistent. I found a hollow in the land and settled into it, sheltered just enough to rest.
And I did.
Drifted into sleep for a while — that strange, shallow dozing where the body rests but awareness lingers just beneath.
Afterwards, I played the flute for a time. No structure. No intention. Just sound moving into the open air.
For thirty, maybe forty minutes, I watched the sun lower — shadows stretching across the land, the light softening, everything slowing.
There weren’t many people about.
Enough space to move freely again. Enough quiet that nothing felt observed.
Between Worlds
On the walk back, I passed a couple of people.
Again — nothing said.
Not confrontation. Not approval. Just… neutrality.
As if the boundary between what is expected and what simply is becomes softer in these places.
The Shape of the Day
From around 12:30 to 19:00, I was out.
Not doing anything extraordinary.
And yet…
Painting iron into harmony with wood.
Walking barefoot through broken earth.
Finding new paths.
Resting in the hollow of a hill.
Watching the day close.
There’s a continuity in it.
From structure…
to earth…
to sky.
No separation. Just movement between forms.
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