My first memory of Forest Bathing!

 Our memories are never exact & that’s a fact. They’re coloured by the emotions of then & now; and what we want to remember. Perhaps I only walked with my father once or twice to the five acre wood or perhaps it was a more regular event - I don’t know. All I can share are my memories. 

Leaving Mum, grandparents & sisters behind, I walked beside Dad, independently, silently, admiring my wellies! Down the lane, across the road, Dad climbed over the gate & I clambered through the lower bars. (That was what I now know as a blacksmith’s gate - lower bars close together to prevent lambs skipping through & the space widening as you looked from the ground up, the frame secured by a diagonal bar). Anyway back to our walk, we continued up the field towards the wood with Dad stopping every so often to look around, checking the cattle who took no notice of us, taking a look at the neighbours’ fields; & pointing out flowers like gorse or blackberry, which were buzzing, as the bees gathered pollen. It wasn’t a long walk, but we took our time enjoying the sunshine heat, looking & listening. 

The wood seemed to reach out before we reached it. The beech tree growing at the wood gate had a canopy that extended into the field so the temperature change was gradual. Here the ground was bare as the cattle lay under the shade in the heat of the day or to take shelter from the rain.

Another blacksmith’s gate to get through & we were in The Wood. Sounds muted except for the occasional birdsong. Colours were different, blending one into another - fallen & rotten sticks to ground plants, fungi, tree trunks, branches, leaves, flowers & seeds. The smell was different too. This was a mixed wood but no evergreens except for holly & trees grew where they could survive. It smelled earthy. Dad allowed me to wander as he did. I’m sure if I’d asked him, he’d have told me he was checking fox dens, badger setts, the trees that would be cut for firewood, the number of pheasant or pigeons & rabbits & so on. But my memory is of Dad walking slowly, quietly, leaning against a tree, or sitting down for a few minutes.

How long did we spend there? I don’t know. It didn't matter. Leaving, we walked slowly, silently, back to everyday living.