Into the Woods pt. 2
The final part of the two part series on woodland: Forest bathing
It was a strange morning. Usually I’m woken up by sunlight squirming and wriggling it’s way through the fibres in my curtain, but that didn’t happen. My body clock has woken me up though, and I squint over towards the window and think that perhaps I’ve woken up very early. In my misty-brained, dreary-eyed daze I assume the time to be about half past 5 in the morning and roll over in my bed, clutching my duvet with a wry smile across my face. Who doesn’t like waking up knowing they can steal a few more hours? An indeterminate amount of time later, I reach my right arm down beside my bed and rub my hand across the floor in the daily hunt for my phone. It’s 8:30am. I stumble out of bed, whip the curtains open and it’s dark. It looks like dawn is just about to break, but it broke a while ago. I get myself ready, put my walking gear on and head out of the door.
I was inspired by my walk in the woods earlier in the week, and I set out determined to explore the woodland at the bottom of my village. There is a feeling of entering another realm when you walk into these woods, perhaps aided by the need to walk underneath a still-used steam train track and through a kissing gate to get into it. I trudge down a soft and squelchy track, mud splashing up the sides of my trousers and caking my boots and walk past a barn of some description. I’d say it is a traditional stone barn with stones of different shapes and sizes used in its construction, but some would say different. Perhaps it’s not even a barn. The windows are boarded up so I can’t see in, and part of the roof has collapsed in on itself so I doubt it’s been used for some time.
I know the wood can hear me coming. I’m now stood underneath branches and I’m staring into an abyss of fallen leaves. The vibrations of my footsteps reverberate through the fungal network underfoot, alerting the ecosystem of an alien presence. I push through the threshold, take a deep breath in and exhale a long, drawn-out breath while taking in my surroundings.
The trees have shed their green, leafy clothing and they brandish their bare branches with pride, exposing countless bird’s nests that are sat snugly in the corners of branches. The leaves have all fallen off the trees by now and a sea of browns, oranges and blacks flood the floor of the wood. The small hills that define the topography of the wood now look like enormous piles of leaves, primed and ready to be jumped into by an excitable dog. Just a few months ago this wood would have felt much more alive; the treetops plump and healthy, a dark green canopy providing much-needed shade from the sun. Now the leaves have all died. Stiff with rigor mortis and dry as a bone, they crumble into dust when touched. Their scattering on the floor is all part of the life cycle of the wood. Not only do these leaves provide a habitat for insects, but as they decompose they provide nutrients for the soil and help the wood stay healthy. This is a good tip for any budding gardeners. Although not the prettiest, a covering of chopped up leaves across your flowerbeds over winter can help promote biodiversity and the overall health of your garden. Like a phoenix, the woods rise from the ashes of itself; it’s own death is used to kickstart new life.
I’m determined to explore these woods deeper, following the desire lines that have been trodden into the ground. As I journey round, I see things that make me smile: Fire pits, rope swings, dens and mountain bike tracks are spread throughout the wood. The dens look skeletal, the leaves having fallen through the gaps with old age. These remnants of summer frivolities will surely be used again in a matter of months, fresh coverings of next year’s leaves draped over the sturdy remains of dens gone by. In the distance, chattering voices break the silence. At first I think I’ve heard some birdlife, but then I catch a glimpse of a yellow bobble hat through the branches in the distance. They’re only quiet murmurings but they remind me that the colder months don’t deter people from visiting.
I suddenly realise that I’ve lost myself in the wood. In the short time I’ve been here I’ve allowed my thoughts to run away, twisting and turning through the trees. And I feel fantastic. I feel relaxed, happy and carefree. Everything has slowed down, my pace is leisurely and my thoughts aren’t racing. It’s all very peaceful. Of course this is only temporary, but it’s a welcome break. The Japanese practice of Shinrin-Yoku, or ‘forest bathing’ has really taken off in the UK, and it has been heavily advocated by the Woodland Trust who believe that medical practitioners should prescribe it as a non-medical therapy. This primary focus of Shinrin-Yoku is allowing senses to reconnect back with nature in a time where society is becoming more and more disconnected. This may seem like spiritual gobbledegook, but it’s scientifically proven to help with a matter of ailments. Plants and trees release anti-microbial chemicals called phytoncides which provide a huge boost to our immune system, and where better to get these than in the middle of a wood? There have been multiple studies that directly relate leisurely forest walks to a decrease in stress levels and an increase in mood. Nature’s aromatherapy has never seemed more appealing.
It’s about time for a cup of tea. I can feel my ears getting cold and I have some other things to do today so it’s time to go home. I slowly head on up the hill to get home with a smile on my face and my shoes and trousers covered in mud. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time, and I’m a pretty happy guy. Even if it’s just for half an hour, I’d recommend going into the woods.
