Skeggy.......

off to Gibraltar point for the annual 'geog-fest' of sand dunes, salt marsh, cooked breakfasts, air hockey, short-eared owls and the ghosts of field trips past.....

Egg head......

has just remembered he is going to have an egg cracked on his head in assembly today as an act of selfless love. It is problematic sometimes to explain fully what I do for a living. Geography teacher is far too narrow. Still...pays the mortgage.....

If you stare for long enough......thanks Fion!

I had a suit made from the same material in the 1980s...bought it from Mr Buyrite on Oxford Street for £10......

Red-billed Queleas "chasing" Elephants away from a waterhole in East Tsavo

Red-billed queleas are small birds but this footage really does show what power there is in numbers. I have stood close to flocks of roosting starlings and watched thousands of knot feeding on the muddy shores of the Wash and the sense of spectacle is amazing. It is hard to explain the sound but they almost create their own weather system as their combined wing beats create a 'wind'. You can sense that the elephants are perplexed by the whole situation.......

BBC - Human Planet - Honey Guide Bird

Amazing when you see a relationship such as this between humans and birds......incredible stuff!

Part 5......

Pirin rested his head back into sun-dried meadow grass and stared up at the sky.  A kite bird lazily spiralled downwards on outstretched wings before sinking into the wooded ridge facing the foxglove-fringed clearing in which he and Karis lay.

“That’s the fourth kite I’ve seen since we’ve been lying here.  I can hear daws too.  Something must have made a kill.  Probably the bear you saw earlier, Karis…..Karis?  Are you listening to me?”

Karis groaned and sat upright, holding his head.

“Falling asleep in the midday sun is never a good idea. I’m too used to the darkness of the forge.  I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the face by an irritable mare.  How long have I been lying here?”
Pirin reached behind himself and pulled a small pouch from his sack.  Out of it he took two small lime-green leaves, passing them to Karis.

“Chew on these with some of that stale goat’s cheese and drink plenty of water.  You’ll soon feel better.”

Karis gratefully accepted the leaves, placing them directly into his mouth.  Immediately his face contorted and he grabbed his leather flask, pulled out the stopper and threw back his head, drinking deeply.  Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he looked accusingly at Pirin.

“I don’t know about cheese, but those would make goat shit seem appetising!”

Pirin laughed loudly. 

“Feverfew is certainly bitter to the taste, but it’s very effective.  You’ll feel the benefit soon.”

Karis continued to gulp down water in an attempt to rid his mouth of the taste.

“Well at least your sense of humour has returned.  Your thoughts have been elsewhere since this morning. I’ve never seen you look so miserable for so long.  I was beginning to think it was something I had said.”

“I’m sorry, Karis.  I know I’ve not been good company.  My dark mood deserves an explanation.”  Pirin let out a long, audible sigh before continuing.  “Just before we left I visited the badger sett in the old flint digging.  The badgers were more tardy about revealing themselves than usual, but I did see a vixen.”

Karis leaned back, shading his face from the sun with a bracken frond.

“So all this melancholy is down to some absentee badgers?”

“No, not quite.”

Pirin paused and stared straight ahead.

“The vixen told me I was in danger.”

Karis sat up and looked at Pirin, unsure whether to laugh.

“Perhaps she was lonely and just wanted someone to talk to.”

Karis grinned uneasily, noting the continued seriousness of Pirin’s set expression.

“I know it sounds absurd.  Believe me, I’ve mulled it around in my head ever since it happened.  There’s no escaping the fact that I heard her thoughts, and what’s more, she wanted me to.  When I described my experience to Crelda, she told me that I have a gift.  She said I could feel the universal spirit.  I suppose the whole thing could be a liberating experience, a cause for exhilaration, but to be honest Karis, I’m terrified.  I don’t think I want to be party to an animal’s thoughts.  I mean, where are the boundaries?  I don’t want to access the emotions of a soon-to-be-eaten vole, or a beetle chewing through a rotten log.”

Karis shook his head, perplexed.

“I’m glad you can’t read my thoughts.  Some things are just not for sharing.  I don’t have many possessions that are exclusively my own.  What’s inside my head should remain sacrosanct.”

“Absolutely, but who is to say that I can’t.  I’m not sure that it is something I can consciously control.  We are all beasts, after all.  If it is a gift, I suppose I should treasure and nurture it, but to be perfectly honest I feel far from privileged.  I feel uncomfortable rather than thrilled.  I mean, voices in the head – perhaps I’m just mad!”

Leaning forward, Karis rested his chin on his knees and thought for a moment.

There is a grain of insanity waiting to germinate in all of us, Pirin.  My temper is like a viper waiting for its moment to strike, and it often catches me unawares.  At least you question your sanity, which is reassurance enough for me that you are still sound of mind.  Look, there’s another kite.”

Pirin turned in the direction of the wooded ridge to see another large, reddish-brown bird disappear into the green canopy.

“How curious.  Whatever they are scavenging must be big.  Let’s go and have a look.”

Standing upright, Pirin brushed wisps of dry grass from his clothes, lifted his bag and set off towards the tree line.  Looking over his shoulder, he beamed at the young blacksmith.

“Thanks Karis.  Your words have reassured me that I’m not sliding towards insanity after all.”

Karis, watching Pirin turn and continue once more, smiled, relieved at his friend’s lightened mood.  Standing, he opened his backsack and pulled out a short, wooden-handled axe.  Just in case it is that bear, he thought to himself, and strode purposefully after his friend.

For a while they descended a steep slope, using an indistinct deer track as a guide through the birch trees, which were uniformly pale-barked and closely spaced.  Eventually the terrain levelled out and became more sodden underfoot.  Tall, dark green alders billowed upwards and a lush cream and yellow swathe of wild garlic and kingcups covered the ground.  The saturated soil gave way under their feet and progress became increasingly difficult.  Karis cursed loudly as his boot embedded itself in the dark mire, which seethed with tiny flies that took off in irritating clouds.  Looking ahead, Pirin was clambering through a tangle of fallen branches beneath an enormous willow.  Karis shouted after him:

“I take back what I said about you being mad!”

Balancing precariously, he grabbed hold of the lowest branch of the nearest tree to steady himself and leaned forward to lift his boot from the mud.  With a loud crack it gave way and he fell flat on his face.  A flock of daws erupted from the crown of the tree and next to him there was a ground-shaking thud as something very heavy landed in the soft earth.

On hearing the sound, Pirin turned to see Karis struggling to sit upright, barely visible above the lush vegetation.  Carefully testing the ground with each footstep, he made his way back to his friend as quickly as possible.  Next to Karis lay the considerable carcass of a large bull elk.  The bones had been picked clean and the skin and fur had desiccated in the sun.  The remains had obviously been in the tree for some time.

 “Whore’s tits!  That was close.  That thing would have finished me if it had been a direct hit.”

Karis stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the corpse.

“What do you think killed it?”

Pirin prodded the corpse with a piece of the fallen branch.

“Well, it had to be a large predator to bring down that beast.  A bear could do it.  Or something that hunts co-operatively, like a pack of wolves, but they couldn’t carry it up a tree.  For that matter, I’m not sure that a bear could either.  It’s enormous.”

Pirin gazed up at the daws starting to settle back into the tree.

“I’m going up there for a closer look.”

Before Karis could stop him, Pirin had thrown down his bag and started to haul himself up on the lowest branches, which, although slender, were supple and took his weight comfortably.  As he ascended, the smell of wild garlic receded to be replaced by an increasingly putrid, sickly-sweet odour and Pirin found the need to cover his nose and mouth with the palm of one hand.  With difficulty he tried using his other hand to form a secure grip around a horizontal branch just above his head.  As he did so, his fingers came into contact with coarse fur and instinctively he recoiled.  In doing so, he lose his balance, sliding downwards until prevented from falling any further by a fork in the trunk.  Looking up, Pirin saw that he had dislodged the body of a badger.  Again, almost all of the flesh had gone from the bones and he stared at the animal’s head.  Recognition gradually dawned on him – from the facial pattern of stripes and the size of the animal itself, he realised that this was the dominant boar from the flint diggings.  Pulling himself closer, he saw that its neck had been crushed.  Stifling a surge of panic and a feeling of vulnerability, Pirin scrutinised the foliage and branches above him.  To his horror, they were strewn with impaled creatures, some long dead and others still writhing with maggots.   The stench of death and corruption suddenly became overwhelming and Pirin felt his gorge start to rise and his head swim.  Realising he would fall, he quickly descended the tree, sliding down the rough bark, oblivious to the grazes and cuts caused to his knees and elbows as he did so.

At the bottom, he slumped against the trunk, eyes closed and breathing rapidly, his mind racing.  Eventually he opened his eyes to see Karis looking at him, obviously concerned.

“You look as though you have just stared death full in the face.”

For a moment Pirin said nothing.  Then, leaning forward, he inspected the blood seeping from his wounds.

“I…I have” he stuttered, barely able to comprehend what he had just seen.

Realising his friend did not want to speak, Karis carried on. 

“I’m beginning to feel uneasy about all of this, Pirin.  Look, I discovered these while trying to get my boot back.”

Karis bent down, separating the lush vegetation with his hands to reveal numerous footprints.

“At first I thought these were the marks of men.  But look a little closer.  The soil is very soft and may have distorted things somewhat, but these footprints are all really long and narrow.  Then I noticed that in front of each toe is a small impression in the earth.  Now, perhaps these people are in need of a heavy-duty nail file, but it seems to me they might have claws.  We’re not talking about one individual fellow with exceptional feet either – they’re all the same.”

Karis looked around before stepping carefully towards what looked like a pile of old sticks.  Bending down, he lifted it slightly and peered underneath.  Pirin curiously wandered over to join him.

“Just when I had decided that we were dealing with some sort of animal here, I found this.”

Scraping the ground with his boot, he raked up a pile of ash, which contained charred twigs and bone fragments.

“Whatever killed those animals also cooked them.  These embers are still warm and, at a guess, I would say that this little lot was stacked up for tonight’s meal.  What creature of the forest do you know that plans ahead like that?  Whatever they are, I don’t really want to be here when they get back.  I think we should leave here now.”

Pirin silently nodded his agreement and, grabbing his pack, turned his gaze upwards.  Oily-black claws wheeled and dived around the tree, loudly and impatiently scolding the two humans whose presence had disturbed their feast.

“I think we should share our discovery with Crelda” Pirin suggested.  “Perhaps she can shed some light on the identity of our carnivorous friends.  If we follow the course of the Silkstream we’ll reach her cottage in a few hours.  The terrain may be a little difficult to negotiate, but there should be enough cover to keep us well concealed.”

A clearly relieved Karis hurriedly gathered together his pack and equipment and ran after Pirin, who had already started to head back in the direction from which they had come.  One by one the daws settled back into the tree and were silent.

The 'My car-only-does-one-speed-and-I'm-sticking-to-it' syndrome

I do enjoy driving. And at the time of morning I leave for work the Chilterns look at their best...beautiful sunrises, changing seasons...the usual. I particularly like the clear highways which, apart from the liberal and nightly topped-up sprinkling of road kill, usually make the whole experience very pleasant....except when you are going along at 60 mph along the road from Little Chalfont to Chorleywood and someone in an MG ZR pulls out in front of you so that you have to slow right down....nothing behind me so they could have waited for me to pass their junction. I could forgive them..... but they then proceed to do a steady 40 mph which, when we get to the 30mph zone, they continue to do. Just irritates me. That's all. Sorry. Got that out of my system.

Early morning emails......

Love that feeling when you get to work and open up your emails and find a very apologetic message cancelling a meeting for today that you hadn't even been told had been arranged and therefore had no intention of going to....have emailed back saying that the cancellation is not a problem at all and not to worry....thanks for letting me know.....

Don't lie on the grass....you never know what the wildlife has been up to on it......

Our house lies on a toad migration route and each March they emerge on warm, rainy nights and make their way towards the stream and reservoir opposite our house. Sadly many die trying to cross the road. Last night these two had obviously allowed passion to get the better of them and they were caught 'in the act' when our security light came on as we arrived back from a day in London......

Part 4.....

Ears forward and eyes fixed, Trisk watched his mistress, following her every movement.  Using a blunt knife, Crelda raked out the dry mortar binding the rough clay and straw bricks of the exposed wall.  Her fingers raw and bleeding, she slowly prised each one out, laying them on the floor.  Gradually, brick by brick, a dark cavity began to form.  As soon as it was large enough to take both her hands, she reached in and carefully lifted out a small ornate box, its lid intricately etched with the image of an ancient tree, still just visible through a thick film of undisturbed dust.

Placing the box on the table, Crelda wiped the lid with the palm of her hand and released the small metal catch which kept it closed.  Cautiously lifting it, she peered inside.  Nestled in a bed of faded blue velvet was a leaf, beautifully carved from a single piece of wood, its surface perfectly smooth rand heavily streaked with rich, dark veins.  Lost in thought, she gently ran her fingers over it, tracing its smooth curves and the reddish swirls that deepened into nutty brown knots.

A quiet whimper from behind her caused her to turn around and she saw that Trisk was trembling.  Beckoning the dog with her outstretched hand, she walked to the door and, silently lifting the latch, opened it.  Pausing for a brief moment to survey the surrounding woods, she walked on to the grassy clearing in front of the cottage.  Crelda knelt down, cupped her hands under Trisk’s chin, and softly kissed the top of his head.  Then, embracing his neck and burying her face in his thick fur, she began to sob softly.  After a short while she leaned back, wiping her face with her apron, and stared into the dog’s blue eyes.

The time is drawing near, my dear companion, when I fear our lives must follow separate paths.  Harmful spirits are close at hand and will soon be upon us.  You have fulfilled your duties well. You have been my protector, not just from danger, but from that awful enemy loneliness…Akin would be so proud of you.

Trisk threw back his head and, continuing to shake, let out a defiant howl.

I will not leave.  My place is here with you.

Crelda’s eyes again reddened, stinging through barely withheld tears, and she once more fixed her gaze on the dog’s frightened face.

There is no choice in this matter, Trisk.  You must leave now.  We are both in terrible danger and time is cruelly short.  I command you to go from this place at once.  Go to Pirin.  He is still a fledgling and needs your protection.  He has powers that he cannot yet understand, let alone use.  Now go!

Embracing him one final time, she stood upright and gestured for him to leave.  Reluctantly, Trisk turned and walked slowly along the track in the direction of Crowfoot, eventually visible only as a pale speck against the dark forest.  Crelda looked uneasily towards the trees and hurriedly returned to the cottage.  Stopping outside the door, she pulled a short knife from her pocket and cut several sprigs from the containers around it before going inside and bolting the door behind her.   At the sound, Trisk distantly re-emerged on the track and sprinted back towards the cottage, until finally settling into his favourite hiding place behind the water butt.

Now alone, Crelda hastily tossed the herbs into a shallow bowl and ground them with a pestle into a pungent, dark green paste.  This she then smeared on the palms of her hands, between her fingers and also on the surface of the table around the wooden leaf.  Pulling up a high-backed wooden chair, Crelda sat herself upright at the table, placing her hands either side of the leaf.  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and silence filled the cottage.

For a short while nothing happened.  Then, very slowly, the temperature in the room started to drop.  Ice crystals formed on the windows and the water in the pitcher solidified, creaking and wheezing as it did so.  Crelda’s eyelids flickered.

Oh great Creator, Supreme Lord of all Being, release my human form and return me to the mouldering roots of the forest whence I came.  Let the Earth Mother consume my essence so that I may once again dance with my brothers and sisters.

Crelda’s body swayed as she spoke, her hands remaining firmly on the table.  Slowly the veins in the leaf began to pulse and move, merging and flowing into the table, meandering outwards like fungal filaments embedding themselves in the wood.  Reaching Crelda’s fingertips, they penetrated under her nails and progressed under the skin, spreading up both arms in a purple flush.  As they did so, her skin hardened, roughened and split; writhing green tendrils emerged and spiralled downwards to the earthen floor.  All around Crelda, a thick crust of ice had formed on everything, long shafts extending downwards from the ceiling.

Outside, a cool green light emanated from the cottage, seeping under the door and from behind the shutters; the whole building seemed to groan, as if being tested to its foundations.  From the darkening wood a spidery figure ran at high speed towards the door, bowling into it with tremendous force.  The door splintered but did not give way, a thick layer of ice having formed a protected second layer behind it.  Screaming with frustrated rage, the creech leapt upwards, swinging acrobatically to land on the thatched roof.  Immediately it plunged downwards, hacking and flailing at the straw which soon started to disintegrate.  More creeches ran from the woods, converging on the cottage, battering into the shutters, pounding and clawing at the brittle wood and yelping in an excited frenzy.  From out of the darkness a pale form also pounced forward, thudding into one of them, catching it off balance and sending it spinning to the ground.  In an instant, Trisk’s jaws closed on its throat and the two wrestled in the grass, the creech desperately trying to kick away the unyielding dog.  With a sudden flick of his neck, Trisk wrenched himself away, a large clump of fur between his teeth.  The creech writhed on the ground, frantically trying to stem the blood bubbling from its severed jugular.  Another creech sprang onto Trisk’s back, the dog staggering under its weight.  As it leaned forward to administer a paralysing bite to the back of the neck, Trisk rolled onto his side, smashing the creech into a stack of earthenware pots, which crashed loudly to the ground.  Before the creech could relaunch its attack, Trisk was upon it and bit deeply into its face, crushing the cartilage of its nose as his head instinctively jerked backwards.  Turning to face the cottage, Trisk stood still, his rib cage heaving as he fought to catch his breath.  He watched as a third creech descended carefully from the roof, its staring eyes fixed on his own.  In its hand it held a spiked club, which it manipulated slowly in its grasp.  Behind it a chorus of whoops accompanied the collapse of the roof into the cottage itself.  With a defiant, guttural growl, Trisk launched himself into the air.

Poetry in the sky.........

Heard a skylark pouring its heart out high in the sky above my house at dawn this morning as I got in my car. Couldn't see the bird but could hear its voice and how it would have inspired Shelley to write......

Ode to a Skylark

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert -

That from Heaven or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are bright'ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of Heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight -

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody: -

Like a Poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace-tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue

Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves:

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awakened flowers -

All that ever was

Joyous and clear and fresh - thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, Sprite or Bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

but an empty vaunt -

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn

Hate and pride and fear,

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know;

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Misunderstandings.......

I took my daughter to the hospital today to have her six-monthly blood tests, an ordeal she bears with great fortitude and humour. Once we had sorted the blood sample, we had a brief meeting with the consultant - a new face as the regular one was unwell.
Consultant to Lottie: 'How old are you...?'
Lottie: pause......'forty six'
Consultant....confused face.
Lottie: 'Oh sorry, I thought you were asking about my dad....'
Consultant (laughing): 'I see your birthday is in January....what did you do? Did you have a party?'
Lottie: 'We went to Buildabear'
Consultant: 'Wow! How long were you in Bilbao...?'
At this point I began to wonder if I was an unwitting participant in a Monty Python sketch........

Tim Vine - Pen behind the ear...

Worth sticking with this one...very funny finale to his show....

Come back Tony...

Just watch the goals against Wimbledon and Liverpool and his hat-trick in Europe.......sublime.

The day the top of my head was kissed repeatedly by a strange man.......

Oh for the good old days........losing 3-7 at home....ouch!! This remains my favourite ever game. I was just behind the goal and we watched a terrible Leeds team go 3-0 down by half time....but in the last 15 minutes Leeds scored 4 goals. Never known such euphoria. The bloke behind kept kissing the top of my head......! Here's to some more good times next season.....

Tim Vine - Alarm Bells

Tim Vine Live At The Apollo EXTENDED Part 1

My hero....this guy is so funny and, importantly, he doesn't swear for effect. Clever one liners....saw him at the Bloomsbury Theatre a couple of years ago and in panto.

What goes chiffchaff....?

This has to be one of the sounds of spring...first heard on sunny March days emanating from an invisible source usually high in a tree. Heard my first one of the year yesterday. It may not be much of a song but it does raise the spirits....see if you can hear a chiffchaff...you stand a better chance of that than actually seeing one!

Rare wildflowers.....

Snake's Head Fritillaries are the most amazing wild flower - it is indeed hard to believe that they are a native plant: they look as though they belong in an exotic botanical collection in a greenhouse at Kew. They like damp grassland and I am really pleased that there is a small colony opposite my house growing along the sloping banks of the stream. Unusually, there is also a naturally-occurring  white variant. They are very rare and are only found in a few locations in the country, which makes the few individuals near us very special...perhaps remnants from a more abundant past.

Part 3......

Pirin awoke in the morning with a pounding headache.  His sleep had been dream-filled and fitful, with Crelda’s words and the vixen’s image swirling around in his mind.  The walk back from her cottage had not been the contented stroll that normally followed his visits to the sett.  Every sound or movement had been met with apprehension at what an encounter might bring and for once the darkness of the wood had made him anxious and sweaty.

Pirin rolled on to his side in the low bed, wrapping the coarse blanket tightly around his shoulders.  Sunlight was streaming through the small window above the door, sharply defining the cobwebs that formed an intricate lattice around it.  Pirin felt his mood lighten as he took in the familiarity of his cabin.  It had originally been built by his father as a storehouse for root crops, mounds of misshapen carrots and turnips piled up against the stone walls, and despite being abandoned from this use many years previously, it still bore a not unpleasant earthy smell.  The cabin was set into a slope, its turf roof blending with the hillside, and although fierce draughts swept under the door and between the shutters in winter, it was compact enough to be cosy and served Pirin’s purposes well.

As a result of its former use, the cabin was set apart from the other dwellings of Crowfoot, a bustling frontier village that had grown to satisfy the insatiable appetite for timber products from the large cities such as Edgewood, Toadsmouth and Tarn far to the south.  Crowfoot derived its name from an ancient beech tree, the twisted roots of which clung on to the limestone crag in whose sheltered shadow the village had flourished.  Struck by lightning many years earlier, the tree’s charred remains now resembled a huge claw, grasping upwards towards the sky.

Since the colonisation of coastal Calandria a hundred years or so previously, an initial string of small fishing villages and ports had coalesced to form a continuous sprawl of feverish human activity.  Yet away from the rich resources of the sea, the fertile soils, and the mild climate of the coastal plain, most of Calandria remained uncharted.  As yet, humans had only a toehold in the great wildwood that seemed to stretch forever inland.  A combination of biting insects, the continual threat of marsh fever, and tales of ferocious beasts had kept the colonisers at bay.  Only for a relative few did the forest provide a living. Crowfoot was one of a thin scattering of outlier settlements to the south and east of the Wolfskill mountains, the nearest – Bluetree and Itchingfort – being over sixty miles way.

Bracing himself for the chill of the cabin, Pirin threw back the blanket and made his way gingerly to the crude stone basin in the corner of the room.  The water in the jug that stood next to it was icy cold and Pirin flinched as he splashed his face and upper body.  Hurriedly he pulled a white linen shirt over his head, immediately feeling the benefit.  On top of this he fastened a waist length green leather jerkin.  His leggings were of fustian, a coarse material which, although cheap, had so far been effective against the coldest weather the winter had to offer.  Pirin’s boots were old and worn, but for all their age were still functional and comfortable.

A circle of rocks formed a simple grate and Pirin piled up shrivelled, brittle twigs over a layer of dry grass.  Using a length of coarse-fibred twine to twist a smooth stick on an indented wooden block, he soon generated a smoulder which, fed with dry tinder, quickly flickered into a small but healthy fire, the smoke drifting upwards towards a narrow exit in the roof.  Over it he heated a bowl of sweetened oats, to which he added dried cobnuts and goat’s milk, stirring it slowly until the mixture thickened.  Feeling a need for sunlight, Pirin pushed back the shutters and made his way back to his bed, cupping the bowl tightly on his lap in order to make the most of its radiated heat.  Although the sun was bright, it was still early, and as he ate Pirin’s breath rose in small clouds, twisting towards the cool clarity of the window.

Wiping the bowl clean with a damp cloth, Pirin opened a low cupboard near the door of the cabin.  From it he took a canvas belt, which had a series of hooks sewn into it.  Wrapping it around his waist, he suspended a number of small implements from it – a three-pronged, curved fork, a blunt metal spike and a small trowel with a wooden handle – all immaculate and well oiled.  Lifting a bag from the bottom of the cupboard, he inspected its contents.  Inside he found a quantity of muslin pouches of various sizes and a bundle of white cloth.  Carefully unfolding it, he took out a short axe, a double-edge billhook and a sheathed knife – its hilt carved from a polished red deer antler – and inspected the cutting edge of each blade.  Satisfied with their condition he re-wrapped them and, placing the bag over his shoulder, made for the door, grabbing his cloak as he did so.

Pirin walked briskly down the meandering path that led from his cabin to Crowfoot itself. Unseasonably heavy rain and the still recent snowmelt had left the main track into the village heavily poached, the deep, water-filled ruts requiring careful navigation.  Most of the damage was done by the short-legged, muscular oxen used to drag the heaviest timber to the mill and already several long trains of the white beasts could be seen hauling their loads laboriously down from the slopes. 

Crowfoot had originated as a small cluster of prospectors’ huts when gold had supposedly been found in the Silkstream, but when the rush never materialised the nascent settlement had almost withered away.  Only with the boom in the timber trade had the village prospered, sprawling up the valley sides as if in pursuit of the receding forest.  Work ceased almost completely during the bitter rawness of the colder months and Crowfoot would lapse into a form of hibernation, living off its accumulated stores, its inhabitants waiting patiently for signs of the demise of winter.  Their numbers were swollen in the spring by seasonal woodworkers, mainly from the southern coastal city of Tarn, whose rowdy presence would become discernible in the village during the lengthening evenings.  A thin veneer of order was maintained by Ketu, an Enforcer appointed by the regional Council in Tarn, and his small team of poorly organised and ill-trained deputies based at the Watchtower, a tall, imposing structure at the centre of Crowfoot.  As if to counterbalance it, the Boar’s Head Tavern stood at the opposite end of the main thoroughfare through the village, known as the Puddleditch for its tendency to flood following even the lightest rainfall.  It was a notorious focus for the rougher element among the hard, weather-beaten itinerants.  The tavern itself had rooms but they were largely tenanted by whores, who plied a brisk trade among Crowfoot’s male-dominated community.  Its landlady, a stern-faced, grey-haired woman called Kilti, ran it efficiently and largely without incident, her reputation for a fearsome temper deterring all but the most drunken from unsociable behaviour.  Most of the labourers lived in a series of long huts, where beds were rented out rather than rooms and food was cheap and plentiful, if a little mundane.

Beyond the boundaries of Crowfoot, life had more dangers than the beauty of the landscape suggested.  Wolves and bears were not uncommon and occasionally cave lions, either inexperienced or elderly individuals, would descend from their mountain dens, lured by the easy pickings represented by the free-roaming pig herds that grew fat on beech mast and acorns.  As well as these natural hazards, an assortment of thieves and cut-purses posed a continual threat to travellers along the main tracks in and out of Crowfoot.  By far the most dangerous of these were the woodlanders.  These were well-organised extended family groups who led a parasitic existence plundering the legitimate gains of others.  They knew the forest well, successfully avoiding the inadequate patrols sent out periodically to deter them.

Pirin made his way purposefully towards the Meadow, a roughly circular area of worn and weedy grass hardly worthy of the name, which served as an important focal point for the village.  Every two weeks during the summer months a bustling, makeshift market would be held, attended by a bewildering variety of local craftsmen peddling their products to visiting merchants who would go on to resell their haul elsewhere at vastly inflated prices.  Indeed, Crowfoot produce had come to be much sought after.  The local tannery, which had only been established a few years, had a reputation for producing particularly fine, supple leather and the carefully managed coppices provided the raw materials for almost anything from hop poles and pit props to wattle fencing.  Some specialised – Farash was an accomplished bowyer and fletcher, his painstakingly made yew bows and fine ashwood arrows commanding high prices, whilst others turned exquisite and unique wooden bowls and candlesticks from the more unusual woods such as holly and apple.

It was this thriving, vibrant market that provided Pirin with an income, which, although meagre, was more than enough for his needs.  During his childhood, he had been taught by his father those plants, which were of value, either as food or for their medicinal properties, and those that were distasteful or poisonous.  This knowledge Pirin now put to good use, foraging the remote wildwood for plants and fungi in season and selling them on either fresh, or dried for winter use.  Although patches of compacted snow remained in the shadier hollows on the higher ground, the warming spring sun brought with it an exuberant flush of vigorous growth and it was this abundance that Pirin in tended to tap.  Cropped now, the soft leaves of hedge mustard would offer a second harvest later in the summer.  The yellow blooms of winter cress and the peppery stems of cuckoo flower were a welcome relief from the monotony and plainness of late winter dishes and would be much in demand.  However it was for the wild garlic that the forthcoming trip with Karis had been arranged.  Locally plentiful in damper woods, its subtle, mild flavour would survive the drying process and bunches could be hung for selling throughout the year.  Pirin was also hoping to find morels, unusual honeycomb-capped fungi that invariably fetched a good price at the market.  They were greatly sought after by the more pretentious eating houses of the southern cities, in truth more for their rarity than anything their bland flavour had to offer.

Pirin had arranged to meet his companion at the Meadow.  Looking ahead, he could see his friend resting against the stocks eating an apple.

“Karis!”

Pirin signalled his approach with a wave and slapped Karis on the shoulder as he arrived. Karis’ face betrayed his annoyance. 

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for almost an hour now!”

Pirin held up his hands.

“I’m sorry, my friend, but I returned home late from Crelda’s last night and couldn’t get to sleep. I didn’t rise with the dawn as is usual.”

Karis’ face immediately lightened.

“People will start to talk if you keep loitering around the old widow’s cottage – badger watching indeed!”

He nudged Pirin’s arm and gave an exaggerated wink, knowing Pirin would find any such suggestion distasteful.

Pirin swung a playful kick at Karis and missed.

“You don’t fool me.  You’re only jealous because the old sow in Bewik’s barn keeps rejecting your advances.”

Pirin and Karis had been friends since childhood and each felt deeply at ease with the company of the other.  Karis was slightly shorter than Pirin and of a stockier build.  As the eldest son of Sarim, the village blacksmith, he spent most of his time helping his father, acquiring skills which would enable him one day to continue the business of his own.  Despite his somewhat brutish appearance, love of coarse stories and frequent use of profanity, Karis was an emotional soul who shared Pirin’s affinity with the forest.  On many of his free days he would accompany his friend into the wildwood to escape from the sweaty heat and noise of the forge.

Though is manner seemed light-hearted, Karis could tell that Pirin was masking a more sombre mood.  Kneeling on the ground, he loosened the cords holding his pack together.

“Before you ask, I have all the necessities.  Dried fruit, rye bread, soft cheese and a flask of that sickly-sweet honey mead that you’re fond of.  I’ve also invested in some oilskins and a couple of woollen blankets.  I’m not so sure the worst of the weather is behind us yet.  Now, which direction are we heading in today, my leader?”

Pirin ignored the mocking tone in Karis’ voice and nodded towards a small track, which snaked between the brushwood lean-tos of a small piggery, before disappearing into the coppice woods of the lower slopes.  Turning back to his friend, Pirin forced a smile.

“Well, no time like the present to build up an appetite – pass me one of the sacks.”  Swinging it over his shoulder, Pirin set off up the slope.  Karis paused briefly, taking in Pirin’s expression and purpose of gait and quietly chuckled to himself. 

“Another maiden’s caught his eye…lovesick again!”

Shaking his head, Karis fell in behind his friend.  Beneath a vibrant forget-me-not sky, they slowly climbed up the hillside until eventually disappearing from view, swallowed by the verdant vastness of the forest.