The Green Man is Speaking to You
Two friends wearying of modern life set out, humid battleship grey carpeted cloud envelopes and accompanies us on our way into a connected world of crosses and myth. Resting at a church for water, views and a Raphael*
Conversations turn to purpose, widening horizons, spotting the micro, scratching heads to the macro. A country family in matching wellies – patriarchal and regimented going through the obligatory outdoor RnR, the children held in the stern shadows – the wife’s face thaws at a glimpse of freedom sought.
Shouting slogans as modern life demands it – “NO THREAT!”, “COMPROMISE!”, “TAKE SIDES!”, “STAND FOR SOMETHING!”
A skylark astounds – arching, wheeling, soaring.
Along an ancient track fording an ancient stream a family for the modern times sit eating a picnic…no view next to a barren field amongst the pats and parsley. We recall distant memories of 4th form geography classes with meandering rivers, shaley inner bank and “classic undercut” – we are textbook; marvelling at what education has imprinted on our ancient minds.
Further decompressing – our thoughts bob and weave like the meandering stream – picking up the smoothed stones from the bed and nudging them that bit further towards their terminus…wandering and meandering. The world is unresponsive and brutally uncaring of our lives and woes. We rely on the kindness of strangers while we watch and stare, feasting on nuts and pork scratchings – the king of bar snacks.
Leaning against a gate in the nettle and bramble we think about the bread we have broken, the salt we have shared through the years – we speak of our friends, our futures, our fears. Through rutted footpaths dried from no rain across the land owned by big houses - land secured years before an explosive, existentially doomed world.
A pub, the human home of village life – of connectedness, stories, laughs, fights and fumbles closed for the May Day Bank Holiday – no chance of embracing the season when it’s grey and everyone is at home cooped up and logged on – the building reduced to witticisms;
“Dad’s Creche – Apply within”, “Berkshire Ladies love prosecco” – what have we become?
Over the brow to a paddock ablaze with buttercup and dandelion and deeper into the woods a carpet of colour – bluebells, convallaria, star of Bethlehem as far as the eye can see – the aroma! O’heart, to be transported there for life!
Another closed pub greets us with a shrug, the lager taps illuminating their wares, the lights unable to transfix and tickle the punters – fairies and pixies unable to trick and tease.
The byways become more ancient, the GPS failing – an ancient road lost to time. And at the end of the village nestled in the bosom of a darkening wild
wood, a woodman’s workshop – one part function, one part myth….traditional skills retreating to its natural home.
The woodland envelopes us; decay and growth in equal measure – unmanaged nature thriving, surviving and dying.
“Alright, lads” a man dressed in green and camoflague stands at the top of the steep bank as we toil our flabby covid-riddled body up towards him.
“Beautiful here ain’t it….
owned by some folks from London, it is –
they do nothing with it, just let it be.
Love it here I do, some mornings I come and sit on this log 'ere,
just listening”
It’s a magical entrance, perfectly timed. His face is kindly with a hint of menace, yet knowing; time and life-served, a St George tattoo peeping out of his neckline, his hands weathered and damaged.
We talk and all the pieces fall into place:
all the stress and modern day problems dissolve
the people we interacted with,
the connection to nature
the joy and pleasure of being in someone’s orbit you truly love.
His is the all-seeing eye,
the voice of the wood,
the voice everywhere and nowhere,
not just hearing, listening and connecting the dots of our journey,
only visiting those ready to receive – The Green Man
We leave him with his final warning;
“Stay out of your phone, lads!” and we trudge back out to open fields – what happened? was he real?
------------------------------------------------------------- “ ------------------------------------------------------------------
And the reality hits as we walk the final few yards – speeding cars, lorries, soot and fumes
We are back in the modern world yet our energy cannot be sapped – something happened in that wood….transformation, otherness.
It tries to drag us down; people at the station, youth mingling about, timid families unsettled by difference and a group of teenagers laughing and deriding our middle-aged happy band – not today, trolls!
And as our lives speed up on boarding the train, I am reminded of the verse;
"What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?-
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."
*A painting purported to be a Raphael from 1510 hangs in the lady chapel of St Matthews Church, Midgham, West Berkshire
Two friends wearying of modern life set out, humid battleship grey carpeted cloud envelopes and accompanies us on our way into a connected world of crosses and myth. Resting at a church for water, views and a Raphael*
Conversations turn to purpose, widening horizons, spotting the micro, scratching heads to the macro. A country family in matching wellies – patriarchal and regimented going through the obligatory outdoor RnR, the children held in the stern shadows – the wife’s face thaws at a glimpse of freedom sought.
Shouting slogans as modern life demands it – “NO THREAT!”, “COMPROMISE!”, “TAKE SIDES!”, “STAND FOR SOMETHING!”
A skylark astounds – arching, wheeling, soaring.
Along an ancient track fording an ancient stream a family for the modern times sit eating a picnic…no view next to a barren field amongst the pats and parsley. We recall distant memories of 4th form geography classes with meandering rivers, shaley inner bank and “classic undercut” – we are textbook; marvelling at what education has imprinted on our ancient minds.
Further decompressing – our thoughts bob and weave like the meandering stream – picking up the smoothed stones from the bed and nudging them that bit further towards their terminus…wandering and meandering. The world is unresponsive and brutally uncaring of our lives and woes. We rely on the kindness of strangers while we watch and stare, feasting on nuts and pork scratchings – the king of bar snacks.
Leaning against a gate in the nettle and bramble we think about the bread we have broken, the salt we have shared through the years – we speak of our friends, our futures, our fears. Through rutted footpaths dried from no rain across the land owned by big houses - land secured years before an explosive, existentially doomed world.
A pub, the human home of village life – of connectedness, stories, laughs, fights and fumbles closed for the May Day Bank Holiday – no chance of embracing the season when it’s grey and everyone is at home cooped up and logged on – the building reduced to witticisms;
“Dad’s Creche – Apply within”, “Berkshire Ladies love prosecco” – what have we become?
Over the brow to a paddock ablaze with buttercup and dandelion and deeper into the woods a carpet of colour – bluebells, convallaria, star of Bethlehem as far as the eye can see – the aroma! O’heart, to be transported there for life!
Another closed pub greets us with a shrug, the lager taps illuminating their wares, the lights unable to transfix and tickle the punters – fairies and pixies unable to trick and tease.
The byways become more ancient, the GPS failing – an ancient road lost to time. And at the end of the village nestled in the bosom of a darkening wild
wood, a woodman’s workshop – one part function, one part myth….traditional skills retreating to its natural home.
The woodland envelopes us; decay and growth in equal measure – unmanaged nature thriving, surviving and dying.
“Alright, lads” a man dressed in green and camoflague stands at the top of the steep bank as we toil our flabby covid-riddled body up towards him.
“Beautiful here ain’t it….
owned by some folks from London, it is –
they do nothing with it, just let it be.
Love it here I do, some mornings I come and sit on this log 'ere,
just listening”
It’s a magical entrance, perfectly timed. His face is kindly with a hint of menace, yet knowing; time and life-served, a St George tattoo peeping out of his neckline, his hands weathered and damaged.
We talk and all the pieces fall into place:
all the stress and modern day problems dissolve
the people we interacted with,
the connection to nature
the joy and pleasure of being in someone’s orbit you truly love.
His is the all-seeing eye,
the voice of the wood,
the voice everywhere and nowhere,
not just hearing, listening and connecting the dots of our journey,
only visiting those ready to receive – The Green Man
We leave him with his final warning;
“Stay out of your phone, lads!” and we trudge back out to open fields – what happened? was he real?
------------------------------------------------------------- “ ------------------------------------------------------------------
And the reality hits as we walk the final few yards – speeding cars, lorries, soot and fumes
We are back in the modern world yet our energy cannot be sapped – something happened in that wood….transformation, otherness.
It tries to drag us down; people at the station, youth mingling about, timid families unsettled by difference and a group of teenagers laughing and deriding our middle-aged happy band – not today, trolls!
And as our lives speed up on boarding the train, I am reminded of the verse;
"What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?-
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."
*A painting purported to be a Raphael from 1510 hangs in the lady chapel of St Matthews Church, Midgham, West Berkshire