Write '07

It's quiet here; well not exactly quiet but peaceful all the same. It's true you can hear the traffic rumble past, but the drone fades the further in you wander. It's also true you can't avoid the screaming kids insisting on being fed a Mr Whippy ice cream from the van that sits opposite the entrance, but the further off the path you go, the fewer people you meet. In fact the deeper, further off the path you go, the further away from the concrete jungle you escape. Away from modernity, progress, pollution and petty politics into a realm of calm natural balance. In here all the hunters hunt for food not for sport.

This place is my sanctuary from a mad world that seems to be running faster and faster towards the edge of a cliff. This is a special place, magical. I sit and survey my realm from the prostrate trunk of an ancient oak. The floor is carpeted in vibrant colour by the humble bluebells, their hue changing as they dance innocently in the breeze that releases their heady perfume. Interspersed amongst them are the prehistoric ferns; the dry brown fans of the old growth rustle in the breeze whispering their secrets to the leaves that are beginning to unfurl. The oak, the elm, the ash and the yew with their feet firmly rooted in the fertile soil stretch up towards the sun. Their old gnarled branches show signs of regeneration as the buds begin to open. The sun's rays enter into this realm not as all conquering radiance but as individual streams of weightless daylight that move in and out of the trees, their path guided by the clouds that move across an almost invisible sky.

Not all life here is rooted. Squirrels chase each other across the open ground; they stop and turn an inquisitive head towards me before scampering up into the nearest tree to watch from a safer distance. But even they are not native to this land; but introduced by man's interfering hand they have driven the shy red from his home into near extinction. A host of birds labour ceaselessly to search for material to build their nests; all but the cuckoo who sits and ponders which of the busy throng will be the unsuspecting nanny to her offspring. They all sing their own private song, yet the cacophony blends into a symphony that for a fleeting moment soothes away the torturous stress of urban existence.

This is a public place which the public do not visit. They blindly wander the well trodden paths in a feeble attempt to commune with nature, or simply walk the dog. Yet the borders of this peaceful realm are littered with rusting Special Brew cans, empty crisp packets and the burnt out shells of stolen cars. As I sit and cast my eyes along the way I came in, I realise with horror that slowly a path is being worn that one day others will follow. A plane roars by overhead shattering the peace. Then I remember.

It is here I come to ponder, to write. The world goes on without me. Wars still rage, children still die. The world still runs headlong towards that cliff. When I go back home the bills will still need paying, I will still have to go to work tomorrow and my wife will still have left. But at least here I don't think about killing myself.