Here's a view of one of the major locations of my current novel , Foresters, although in my story the place is fictionalised. It's a place I knew well as a kid because my grandparents lived on the edge of the forest and I spent some of the happiest times of my childhood there. It's where I feel that I belong and have my roots.
The mere which you can see through the trees wasn't always there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can remember gathering wimberries with my Gran somewhere underneath that water. The first time I saw the new mere, as you might imagine, I was... well, saddened. It inspired one of my few attempts at poetry.
Go carefully into the forest,
Leave the track carefully, warily, scarily,
Storybook people live in the wood.
Go silently into the forest,
Feel the breeze silently, whispering, whispering,
Trees telling stories, singing songs of the wood.
Go moonlit into the forest,
Wait in the moonlight when shuffling, snuffling,
Badgers are scuffling deep in the wood.
Go skipping into the forest,
Down the bank skipping, hopping and stopping,
Looking for mushrooms down in the wood.
Go slowly into the forest,
Round the bend sadly, wistfully wondering
How did it happen? Such a vast clearing, flooded.
And the path to my childhood ends at the water’s edge where trees are dying.