Rain

I leaned against the window frame watching the rain dripple sadly down the outside of the glass for yet another day, and I imagined myself as a beautiful woman in a music video staring pensively out to a rainy day longing for her love to return, except my longing was not for a man, but for the sun.  Oh sweet sun, where fore art thou?

  

It had been raining steadily every day of 2026 in The Forest of Dean, or at least it felt like it; it had been the wettest January on record and seemed like it was going to be the wettest February as well. The persistent damp wetness and misery of it was depressing.  They say there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes, but this really was bad weather, and on some especially wet days, no amount of waterproof trousers, puddle suits, waterproof jackets, thick jumpers, hats, gloves, scarves or wellies could tempt us to walk outside.

However, there were rare days where we did decide to brave it, simply because we couldn’t face another day shut it without fresh air or sunlight on our skin (no matter how weak) and those days were, to little boys at least, an adventure.

We stopped one day on the way back from church at a spot beside a stream where we had paddled in the summer and played in the gentle flowing waters which bubbled merrily over the pebbles.  We had stood up to our shins in the slowly flowing water, sun on our backs, and skimmed stones over its smooth, glassy surface. We had plunged our arms into the fresh cold water to pick up a particularly interesting stone or to try and catch a tiny fish which flashed through our fingers and away into the weeds.  At one deep spot the boys had even jumped into the water in their swimming trunks and played in the friendly pool, leafy green bowers overhead creating a living, summery roof and forming dappled light which sparkled across the surface of the shimmery water, and kept us warm n spite of the cool freshness of the water.

This day could not have been more different.  The water rushed down that same stream in an angry torrent, at least four feet higher than in the summer.  It foamed and gushed, brown and heaving. The landscape was utterly changed.  Where the stream had previously wound and twisted, now it gushed in one straight, furious river.  Trees, which the boys had previously swung from, had been swallowed up into the ranging water and still others hung precariously over the edge, their roots just barely clinging onto the bank.  At one spot roots jutted out absurdly across the stream where the water had washed away the surrounding soil, leaving the roots exposed and vulnerable, like stranded, bony limbs reaching out for rescue.

After so much rain, the water no longer looked friendly and inviting, but menacing and hostile.  Where in the summer the cool water had been inviting, now it was frightening, and, as my children crept to the edge of the stream bank, craning their necks to get a better look over the edge,  horrible fantasies flashed uninvited into my head of them falling in, being sucked under and dragged down the stream, then getting tangled in nature’s flotsam and jetsam of logs and sticks which traversed the stream, creating a deadly barrier to trap and ensnare and drown.

I quickly pulled them away from the edge, shook the image out of my head and encouraged them that it was time to go home.

The footpath beside the stream was a muddy, slippery mess, and we skidded and slipped our way back to the car, sometimes we had to use stepstones or logs to cross massive puddles to avoid filling our wellies with cold, brown water, balancing precariously like tightrope walkers, holding hands to balance and traverse and parts that were impossible to walk through, we finally made it back to the car and headed home to our dry house. 

The windscreen wipers flashed furiously across the windscreen in a fruitless attempt to clear the water from my view. At the side of the road rainwater poured, like newly formed streams, down the road, in some spots creating huge puddles which stretched across the entire road.  As I drove through, great waves of water flew up and crashed like tidal waves into the nearby hedges and across the car, the children thought this was fantastic! A muddy carwash! I on the other hand was less enamoured, and more concerned about flooding the engine, or accumulating water in our already very rusty chassis. We made it home without calamity and ran to the house for shelter.  How grateful I was to find my husband had turned on the heating and we were able to hang our sodden jackets up to dry and warm ourselves inside.

Rain was a familiar sight in the Forest of Dean, I wonder if it is part of why Foresters are so stoic and hardy seeming, they have had to endure.  But then, I considered, the rewards that came in spring just about made the misery of the rainy winters worth it, for come April the fields and forests would be lush and green again, all those rainy days preparing the ground for new-life, growth and abundance.

 The raindrops continued to dribble sadly down the window glass as I fantasised about the coming warmth of spring.  Not long now, I thought to myself.  On the horizon I spotted a small hole in the clouds, and blue sky, hope! I can’t rain forever!

Ice

The last place I expected to find myself on this cold winters day was the minor injuries hospital in Cinderford. This was definitely not the plan, but as is often the way when one has children, plans must be open to adaptation. I was accompanied by my little four year old and my teenager one of whom had a fishing hook stuck in their finger, and it wasn't the latter. 

The day had begun ordinarily enough, we did our morning devotionals, read a chapter of Oliver Twist and battled through some Maths and English lessons with my older boys, the four your old pottering around with his dinosaurs and cars.  We had some lunch and decided we needed to get out into the fresh air to experience some daylight on our skin, let off some energy and give the dog a run. But this was no ordinary walk, for this was a very icy, wintery, Forest of Dean walk, and this state of affairs commanded that we get ourselves to a body of water in order to fully immerse ourselves in one of the rare delights of this bleak season, that of thick, cold, dark but oh-so-fun ice.

    

  Speech House Lake was the body of water of choice for this particular walk and it did not disappoint.  We walked down the long straight path to the turning for the lake.  To the side of the path was a ditch, itself presenting us with a teasing taste of what was to come.  Crusts of ice formed above the trickle of water that had drained into it and much delight was had in stamping on, crushing and kicking the ice until the muddy waters underneath it pooled and swirled above like a decidedly unappetizing glass of iced coffee.  In some places the water beneath the ice had receded leaving little clean, floating shelves of ice held up with brackets of grass and twigs.

We finally approached the lake itself, excitement grew and it became clear that Jack Frost had been very thorough on his night-time visit leaving a inch, or in some places a two inch thick layer of ice, a veritable sensory playground for four boys whose current purpose in life was to touch, smash, crack and throw as much ice as was humanly possible till their fingers were frozen stiff.

The boys immediately began stamping on the ice at the edges of the lake where the water was shallow (no risk of falling through and drowning; a mothers worst nightmare)  it gave way with some effort and a satisfying crack, allowing for thick heavy shards to be lifted out trophy-like from the waters and thrown, skidding and skipping playfully across the lake virtually uninhibited by friction.  A competition to see how far the ice lumps would slide then ensued. 

The desire to destroy, smash and impose their physical strength on nature was over whelming, and rocks, sticks, stones and logs were hurled joyfully onto the ice, usually the ice won, it was so thick, it could withstand even the most powerful throw from the arms of a sturdy young boy, but occasionally the boy would win and a small, jagged hole would appear in the thick sheet, allowing air to form bubbles underneath, ethereal, like globules of mercury, taking on a life of their own and swimming away like a chilly jelly fish beneath the icy surface. The pond was soon littered with an array of natural detritus which, in a few days’ time would sink beneath the surface or float to the sides, likely causing aggravation to the fishermen who frequented the lakeside during more inclement seasons (more on them later). I also joined in with the fun breaking off pieces of ice and placing them artistically in tree branches. 

    

When that game was finished it was time to see how much weight the ice could bear.  Holding my hands, or a sturdy branch the boys each took turns standing at the edge of the lake to test its strength in another way. Apart from the meagre weight of the four-year-old the ice quickly gave way beneath them, and they dropped stone-like into the shallow leafy water beneath with a yelp, freezing water flooding over their wellies if they were particularly unlucky, squeals of laughter echoing across the forest. On one thicker patch it seemed the ice might take one of the boys' weight until a unearthly crack travelled eerily across the lake resonating through the surrounding forest like an extra-terrestrial craft landing in a corn field on a dark night in Roswell. The sound, so unnatural and alien felt foreboding and reminded us sharply of the dangers of walking on ice. “Do not walk on the ice” I repeated for the umpteenth time “I know it’s tempting but you really must not.”  The dog, of course refused to heed my warning and when running onto the ice like a puppy on a slippery floor.  The last thing I needed was to wade into a frozen lake to rescue a daft dog.  We all screamed and called for her to return, which she thankfully did without any harm done.  But my nerves had become slightly jangled by this alarming event and little did I know, more excitement was to come.

All seemed well, my children were playing in nature, happily engaging in their natural environment, how very Charlotte Mason, how very Nature Study, how very wild and free, but the joy was about to end as my little four-year-old turned to me for help with something stuck in his glove.  He had tried to remove his glove, but it was apparent that something was stopping it from coming off, a clothes tag?  A strange safety pin? No, a fishing hook!  And the darned thing wasn’t just stuck in his glove; it was hooked right through the fleshy surface of his index fingertip.  It pains me to remember.  Realisation dawned, and I quickly began to examine my options.  Remove the fishing hook there and then, but I was afraid, I didn’t know if it was barbed, I didn’t want to hurt him and his little fingers were cold so it wouldn’t bleed much, meaning bacteria could remain.  Option two was to go straight to the hospital, but I didn’t fancy that with all four boys and who knows how long a wait, and option three was to go home and ask my husband for help.

 

I opted for three, mediocre feminist that I am, but it was no easy feat getting everyone back to the car, we had walked quite a way, and I now had a screaming four-year-old who wouldn’t walk, and a crying nine-year-old, upset at the calamity and demanding I call an ambulance.  We said a quick prayer, and I calmly ordered them to walk to the car as I carried the four-year-old on my hip whilst my teen carefully supported the toddler’s hand to prevent the hook from tugging at his finger.

Eventually home and after a conflab with my husband and a quick snip with some pliers to remove the two ends of the hook we found ourselves back where this story began, in the minor injury unit of Cinderford Hospital.

Despite the anguish this unfortunate incident was causing his mother, at this point my four-year-old was playing happily in the hospital's children's area as if the fishing hook still impaled in his finger, were a distant memory.  I grumbled silently about the evils of fishing and inconsiderate fishermen.  We were eventually seen and after a myriad of questions regarding the incident, including, but not limited to his home life, his education, any allergies or medication and any number of other questions which I failed to see were related to the fishing hook, and it was swiftly removed.  We returned home and the event was filed in my memory under “accidents I’d rather forget but most likely won’t” and life continued as normal, no ill effects except that I will probably think twice about letting my children play in that particular lake.

Alas, that was the last thick ice of the season, we had enjoyed it very much, though not quite thoroughly enough since our play was interrupted by the fishing hook escapee. It would likely be another 10 months or so till we would be able to enjoy this rare treat of nature again, because winter would soon be coming to an end in the Forest of Dean.

Mist

    Car headlights appeared, spectre like in the night, materializing almost out of nowhere and floating like eyes from an unconnected from head. Driving felt precarious in these conditions, bends in the road, potholes (of which there were many) and other vehicles constantly took me by surprise, all shrouded in a thick, heavy fog. 

A cloud had descended on the Forest of Dean.  It was not an unfamiliar experience, sitting as we were so high in the landscape, we often woke up in a misty veil which might stay for a few hours or a couple of days.  From our bedroom window, the distant hills of Malvern and the Black Mountains usually such familiar humps on the horizon, were blocked completely from sight by this white, impenetrable cloud. It made us feel cocooned, isolated, like an island in the sky, the whole world miles and miles away, just us, dreamlike, floating in the heavens.

Occasionally we would wake up on a cool Spring or Autumn morning and find ourselves perched atop the clouds. The mist sitting like pools of soft foamy milk in breakfast bowls in the valleys and dips of the landscape and we would look out like fairy kings and queens over our fantasy cloud kingdom. The mist took on a magical quality on days like this; it seemed to hide treasures and secrets in its lacy folds, I could imagine it sprinkling magic into the ground as it floated dreamily across, planting spring seeds or sending the ground to sleep.

 

The mist seemed to take on a physical form on days like this.  Driving through the Forest would take you in and out of the resting mist as if diving in and out of a milky ocean.  One minute above the mist, the air crystal clear and fresh, the next diving down into a cotton wool sea, and just as quickly rising out of it again.  At other times the mist would seem alive, crawling menacingly over hedges and tumbling into the road like a deadly virus out to consume all it encountered.

But we were in the midst of winter now, a cold, frosty and icy January, neither the hope of new life which spring brings, nor the cosy cuddle of Autumn, but the bleak, endless, hopelessness of winter. 17^th century German Romanticist painter Casper David Friedrich perfectly captures the feeling in his painting “Wanderer above a sea of fog”, we stand surveying a bleak horizon, brooding and Darcy-like taking in the moody landscape as if it were doing this on purpose just to spite us. And yet even in the face of death and hopelessness, the Forest continued to take me by surprise in forming beauty with the most unlikely of materials; Dark, bare forests transformed into beautiful enigmatic paintings, bare tree limbs and branches, less spider like and more delicate, seemed to reach through the mist and reveal themselves in layers like a series of net curtains gradually revealing the players on a stage, the performer; nature itself.

 

Wandered Above a Sea of Fog by Casper David Friedrich

On a forest walk at this time of year I imagine myself as Cathy in Wuthering Heights, or Jane Eyre walking through a Gothic, enigmatic, Northern landscape, holding up imaginary skirts and encountering mysterious men who are taciturn, ancient hansom and loyal, but who aren’t men at all but trees only disguised as mysterious men, hiding their beauty and soul behind a rough, craggy bark, bare branches, and emerging hero-like through layers and layers of vapours chiffon. One could easily fall in love with a man like that, and just as easily I have fallen in love with the Forest.

But alas, I wasn’t Cathy and the Forest of Dean is no Heathcliff, especially not on nights like this, nights where  I am just a mother driving her son to Cub Scouts, knuckles whitely gripping the steering wheel hoping that the next bend in the road would reveal no more surprises and I could get him to the Scout hut without encountering another car along a narrow winding lane forcing me to reverse uphill, blind.  I had done that before on a clear day and I didn’t fancy it when I could see less than three meters ahead, let alone behind and without the benefit of headlights to guide me. No, driving in the Forest on a misty night did not transport me to a romantic scene from an Edwardian novel, it left me shaken and longing for a cosy sofa and roaring fire to envelop and hold me, the only defences against the cold and damp Forest of Dean winters. That was winter here, cold and damp, a damp that penetrated to the bone, with no blustery, moorland wind to drive it away.  A damp which sits and waits for the forces of its enemy spring to drive it back into the wet ground and rotting wood. 

But I wasn’t about to let the cold and damp crush my spirits, because I knew that that was what was needed in order to experience the rich, greenness of a Forest of Dean Spring. The mists would eventually melt away like a winter snow, and like a bride lifting her veil at the alter the Forest’s beauty would be revealed.  And so, I left the car on the muddy drive, headed into my house to warm up and closed the door against the penetrating mist, it could fill fields and spill into roads and drift quietly through forests, but it couldn’t enter my own safe dwelling.  And through the bedroom window in the morning I admired the beauty of the mist which shrouded our house still, and I pulled my dressing gown tighter around my shoulders girding myself for another chill day, I lit a candle and imagined myself as a heroine in a Bronte novel, waiting for her hero to return.