Imagine ... the excesses of Christmas and the New Year are left behind; resolutions are still respected. Taking exercise through your local woodland is exhilarating. It is spring; the trees are producing soft green leaves which, moving gently in the breeze, seem to test the sudden mildness; the promise of new life and regeneration. Small birds are everywhere, heard but not seen, building bowers for their young which are imminent. There are animals at every turn from shy, hidden rodents to busy squirrels in the tree tops. There are larger creatures such as badgers and deer which forage through the new growth of shrubs, brambles, ivy and holly. And at ground level bracken swarms aggressively between huge clumps of green moss which cushion fallen trees and decomposing branches. A wide mixture of fungi spring to life in the most unlikely places.
| Parsonage Wood, Wiltshire Source: The Wild Life Trusts |
Then summer emerges with carpets of bluebells and primroses giving way to large purple thistles, rampant chest high grasses, countless white ox-eye daisies with the gentle lazy floating of new-born insects hovering over the wild flowers. You know this woodland so well. You even walk there during the mild summer nights while the soft breezes gently swirl transporting earthy smells while the quiet night-sounds bring a tranquillity unknown during the hectic daylight hours.
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And so the year progresses. Soon you notice the change in the colour and density of the canopy. It is as if there is an unspoken warning of harder times; the browns, reds and golds transform from the green which has run its course and now quietly prepares for discard, for death. But surprisingly, this is not a dismal place, rather one of quiet contemplation, a timeless repetition of the ages. You know this woodland so well ... the dry rustle of brittle leaves seems so natural as you walk within the colder wind under the sharp light of a cloudless autumn sky.
| Parsonage Wood, Wiltshire |
And then, as Robert Burns said, “November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh”; but you expect this. It is only then that you hear strange voices, disembodied howling with groans and screeches which surely could come from no human body. Maybe it is the wind swirling past bare tree trunks, “sughing” through the branches as they toss and tremble in the winter gales like the strings of a musical instrument. Or maybe it is local lads wending their way home having become well insulated against the cold. Or maybe it is something more sinister. But it is difficult to explain the sudden cold spots which hit you as if you had opened the freezer in your warm secure cottage in the village. And your dog comes back to you looking worried and ill-at-ease.
The coldness, the eerie sounds, the unexplained feelings of fear are hard to understand. Are Ghosts afoot? Well, such a place is Parsonage Wood in Wiltshire. If you go there to see and feel for yourself, do not go alone.
In Association with the Western Gazette
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