Tales of the Enchanted Woods

Sunlight drifts between the trees in golden shafts and orbs, dappling the undergrowth in a lazy, dreamlike haze which melts at the edges, warm butter drenching the forest floor. Small clouds of flies spiral and reshape as they simmer out from the scrub like a slow-rising plume of steam. This woodland is blanketed in a thick roll of wild garlic, those broad leaves bunching out from narrow stems, delicate white flowers searching skyward in neat clusters. Under the warmth of the sun's final hour, the garlic's strong scent lifts tentatively from the undergrowth, where it has been trampled and foraged by the creatures of this enchanted wood.

English bluebells, of electric violet, carpet the wood in swathes too. The near horizon between the trees blurs into a sea of blue, those drooping stems laden with dainty petals curling gently upwards at the ends. There's a rich sense of both life and stillness here; that these woods are vessels of creation, yet have remained exactly this way, suspended in time, for centuries.

English bluebells (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) are steeped in folklore, but are also key indicators of ancient woodland. Credit: @madelaineinthewild

These are the woods that captivated me growing up. Late night drives down the winding single-track road, where each bend could conceal lions, tigers, and bears in the velvet dark. Now, these are the woods that enthrall me as I study the rippled waves of bluebells and wild garlic in the daylight, the palm-spanning leaves of horse chestnut.

I've seen the seasons blow through these woods like wind-whipped storms, dissipating on the breeze. In winter, the trees stripped bare and the ground underfoot glazed with a powdery frost. At the advent of spring, when brave snowdrops are the first to pierce through that hardened soil, and in the height of autumn and its rich mosaic of orange, gold, and burnished red. But it's this season, spring's full weight settled comfortably on the land, that enchants me most.

Wild garlic (Allium ursinum) is also known as bear's garlic, owing to the fact brown bears enjoy eating the bulbs of this distinctive perennial. Credit: @madelaineinthewild

Amidst the blue and white, red campion sprouts in isolated blooms. I believe this to be an ancient woodland. Bluebells and wild garlic are indicator species of woodland which has remained unchanged for centuries, standing timelessly. They spread slowly, noticeable with the passage of a great many years. Vasts carpet of both suggests this woodland has been left to shape itself, over and over, a living archive from a world from long ago.

Self-indulgent it may be, but I see these woods as a museum of my life's own ecology too. This is the place my dad would act a creature in the night, scratching and tapping at the car door with the window rolled all the way down. Where a joyous winter morning was passed in a frozen wonderland as I learnt the ways of my new camera. And where countless moments - fleeting, magical moments - have been whiled away crossing paths with this wood's inhabitants, teaching me about what it means to listen to a wild thing that doesn't speak our language.

A sea of bluebells weaves between trees, drooping stems distinguishing these English plants from non-native Spanish bluebells. Credit: @madelaineinthewild

In brambles and hedgerows, the furious barking of a blackcap's territorial call rings steady through the woods, soundwaves bouncing between the trees. The robin's melodious song advertises their location. Our own soft footsteps fall along the road, above the alerting rustle of a blackbird among the undergrowth. I drink it all in, this slice of history, of magic that I am witness to.

On our way out of the woods, a kestrel swoops between low-hanging branches, its speckled back a cloak on tiny shoulders. Over the cropped field, a red kite is mobbed by a tenacious crow, the kite's forked tail eliciting a collective gasp. This is the closest to home we have seen this bird, a new visitor to the region, and we watch as the crow falls away, the kite now above our heads. A single roe deer emerges from the edge of the woods, far enough away not to be disturbed by our retreating presence.

As we leave these enchanted woods behind, I close my eyes. I see an ocean of blue and white, the warm weight of spring settling across my chest. These woods may be ancient, but with each visit, a new sense of wonder finds its way to my core.

Wild garlic has a distinctive scent, and can be foraged for consumption, though the bulbs must not be harvested from owned land. Credit: @madelaineinthewild

About the Author:

Madelaine is a Zoology and Science Communication graduate, now working as a Guide at a BIAZA-accredited aquarium. Passionate about engagement with science and nature, and rediscovering a love of writing, she aims to document her experiences with the wild through blogs, wildlife photography, and tales of the natural world.