Sensing a Different World.

I was walking down The Hollow in the Shire today (that’s the sunken lane that I’ve referred to several times on this blog) when I was struck by the sight of a huge old tree growing out of the tall embankment. The roots which protruded from the earth were wholly clothed in moss and liberally encroached upon by strings of clinging ivy. And beneath the roots was a carpet of wild garlic with its multitude of lanceolate leaves and delicate white flowers.

There was an aura of quiet, natural wholesomeness about it. It reminded me of the fact that as a kid I used to get a strong sense of the misty, mythical Arthurian world – a world in which Romantic ideals held sway and the land was something magical and sacred, rather than a resource merely to be exploited for human gain.

And do you know, I’ve never lost that sense. It surfaces occasionally, usually when I’m alone in a quiet, rarefied spot and the insistent energies of nature whisper ‘this is closer to reality than the one you’re forced to think of as home.’

I hope I never lose that sense, and after all this time I doubt I shall.