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.

New Year's Day

 

 I drew breath sharply through clenched teeth as I stepped gingerly down the slippery stone steps of the ancient well, it’s water’s a constant 11 degrees rising painfully up my bare thighs, making my heart race and mind swim.

Above me the bare branches of oak, beech and ash forming a crooked and bleak web-like roof beneath a stony grey sky, and surrounding bare earth, all muddy, wet roots and rotting damp leaves reminded me that we were in the midst of winter.  Why then would I be choosing to plunge my body into the icy waters of St Anthony’s Well on this rather unpromising and uninviting day?

I wasn’t the only brave, or perhaps mad soul who had chosen to be metaphorically baptised by the Forest on this gloomy day, because this was a spot where many people came to feel the refreshing exhilaration of the well, in addition to experiencing it’s supposed healing powers and ancient mystery.

 It was the first of January 2026 and people came, both Forester and Outsider alike to be re-born, refreshed and renewed by the ancient waters of the well.  We weren’t the first of course, people had been coming to this spot for centuries.  Thought to be build by the monks of what was once the nearby Flaxley Abbey, in the 18^th Century, though having been used for ritual purposes for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years before.  I wasn’t there for the history though; I was there to wash off the old year and begin the new cleansed and refreshed. 

Refreshing was one word to use for the cool crisp waters which lapped deceptively  peacefully inside the square stone pool, I girded myself with several deep breaths and hands clenched together, prayer-like under my chin, as if calling on God for succour, I summoned my courage and dunked myself up to the neck, holding myself in the water and counting a minute before raising myself up, reborn into the cool, damp air of the Forest.  I beat a hasty exit up the algae covered steps and quickly wrapped up in a fluffy dressing gown, legs red raw, teeth chattering and shivering all over.

What a way to start the year, surrounded by the wonder of nature however bleak it appeared at this time of year. The pain and discomfort were worth it for the cleansing feeling experienced after a dip, and after hastily and awkwardly drying and dressing myself under a dressing gown, I sat with two friends and slowly began to thaw with the help of a hot tea and warming chatter, watching whilst other brave pilgrims took their turn in the sacred pool.

January 2026 was my fifth winter in the Forest of Dean, and I was gradually becoming accustomed to the features of its seasons, landscape, flora and fauna as the year rolled on. A wet and cool part of the country, especially on the higher ground where I had made my home with my husband and four sons, but enchanting and magical, mysterious and captivating as well.  We were well compensated for its dampness and cold by its beauty and abundance, and I looked forward to another year to explore and learning about this unique place which was The Forest of Dean.