The Round

 

The path was leading to a wood ahead, and we walked just a little faster. High above the sun was bearing down relentlessly from a clear blue sky, and what little breeze there was - hardly a whisper - did nothing to make us any more comfortable. My wife; no longer the slim young thing she had been when we were young, was decidedly wilting, and I was faring little better. I was also feeling my age, and my straw hat, my constant friend, with its cooling open weave, was letting in the suns strong rays, burning my scalp; long since devoid of its natural cover.

      Only a few minutes longer and we would be able to take shelter under the canopy of trees. Just a couple of hundred yards between us and a drink from the plastic bottle in my rucksack.

      It looked like an old wood, not managed or cultivated, but a mixture of oak and beech, of birch and other indigenous trees. Indeed there were many others, familiar enough but with my knowledge of trees limited, I could not name them all. It look right somehow, just as nature intended, where centuries of natural selection and primitive forces had brought the wood to its present state.

      Beneath and between the trees, much thicket and shrub created quite a dense undergrowth. We managed to push our way through and presently came to a little clearing, with a patch of smooth grass on which we sat, gratefully and wearily, glad at last to be out of the oppressive heat

      It was a few minutes before either of us noticed. We had been too pre-occupied with relief, thinking of the furnace from which we had just escaped, that an important change had occurred. We had I suppose, gone about fifteen, maybe twenty yards from the open field, where moments ago birds had been making their many and varied calls. A couple of pheasants had been engaged in a noisy exchange, and not far away the sound of a large farming machine, busy in the field, had completed the comfortable sense of ‘country’.

      Now it was silent.

      Not a single sound could be heard either from the depth of the wood, or from the fields outside, just a stones throw away. It was a strange and eerie silence, disturbing and uninviting; a silence that did not encourage us to dwell. Much sooner than we anticipated we were both making preparation to resume our walk, in spite of the waiting heat. Indeed it was distinctly chilly now, and the sun would be more welcome than we expected. We stood up looking to return to the field the way we came.

      “This way I think.” my wife was saying

      “Are you sure; I don’t remember that big bush. This way surely.” I said, and made the first step in an other direction.

We could not see daylight through the trees even though we were not that far from the open fields we had so recently traversed, and my sense of direction was far from positive.

      “Just a few yards this way.” I said, “and if that isn’t right we’ll come back and try your way.”

      A half hearted gesture of acquiescence was all the encouragement I received, so we moved off unenthusiastically. Two minutes later it was clear that we were heading in the wrong direction. My wife’s ‘told you so’ look was not very helpful when I suggested that we should return to the little clearing and start again, but there was no doubting the look of relief that replaced it.

      Just two minutes walk; how could we miss it? But somehow we did, for the little clearing with its distinctive patch of smooth grass seemed to have disappeared, and the wood if anything was denser than before. All around it was close packed with only a glimmer of daylight; nothing but trunks and branches, bushes and vegetation. What light there was came from above, but had to make its way through the thick canopy before what little was left, reached the ground.

      It was weird that we could be so uncertain, so quickly, and so near to the edge of the wood, but it was clear that we were lost !! Not that we were in any danger, for it was mid afternoon on a lovely summer day, and it would not be dark for hours yet, so there was nothing to be afraid of.  And yet we had the uncomfortable feeling that we were scared, if only a little.

      It was quite cold now, and the heat from which we had fled would be a blessing, as we had no other clothes with us. Dressed as we were in shorts and tee shirts, we were shivering. Hunger too was starting to be a problem, not serious yet, but we had nothing with us, and all we had to drink was a little water. Our route was to have taken us to the village at the other side of the ridge, where an ‘afternoon tea’ of cream scones and coffee was to have been the climax of the days walk. Instead we were cold and hungry, angry, puzzled, and a touch frightened.

      Where was that damned clearing and the edge of the wood? After that uncertainty we started to very carefully mark our way. Now we were pretty sure of our place in the wood, and after a few ‘trial’ sorties, had been able to return to a certain point. But still we could not find the field from where we entered the wood, or the clearing in which we had rested. Eventually we decided to walk in as strait a line as possible until we came to some kind of ‘place’. A road or a track perhaps!, or a house maybe!, or something!.

      Neither of us could help noticing how our mood had changed; from being happy to apprehension and foreboding. We had been in the wood for about an hour or so, though it felt like forever, and in that short time our excitement and anticipation had completely gone. We would both have been glad to be out in the glorious sunshine, no matter how hot it was.

      Then we saw something that lifted our spirits somewhat. Fifteen minutes of difficult walking through waist high scrub, bushes and close trees, with no paths or clearing, had left us breathless, so we were delighted when we came upon a track. It was narrow and overhung with branches from both sides, many of them low creating a tunnel like effect. Under the lush summer foliage it was not well lit, but it was a track.

      “It must lead to somewhere.” I remarked, trying to be cheerful.

      “But which way?” My wife was not to be cheered so easily. “One way might lead to somewhere, but it might just as easily be coming ‘from’ somewhere.” she muttered.

      “Oh that’s splitting hairs.” I answered, not wanting to be put off. “You might as well say a staircase only goes up. Either way it must go somewhere.”

      “Which way do you think then?” she asked, but in a way that suggested that whatever my answer, she would not be convinced.

      “You tell me!” I answered crossly.

      In order to avoid various hazards, including a little stream and one or two gully’s, our fight through the wood had not been straight as we would have liked, so any notion of direction from our starting point had soon been lost. So it was perhaps unfair of me to put the onus on her, but on the other hand I had as much chance to get it right as she. And to get it wrong!

      I sat down on a biggish moss covered rock to catch my breath while she considered. If we looked to the left the path seemed to curve to the right, and when we looked to the right it seemed to bend to the left.

      After a few minutes she sat down too. A nearby old dead log had made a tempting seat despite its rakish angle caused by it still being attached to a stump. Unfortunately she had not noticed that it was decayed, and as she put her weight on it, it collapsed beneath her, causing her to cry out as she slithered to the ground.

      “I don’t know, you choose.” she finally answered, near to tears as she tried to clean the dirt from her shorts.

      The time was steadily moving on, and we were no nearer to getting out of this wood than we had been nearly two hours earlier. There was still plenty of time before our predicament became a cause for concern, but we were feeling very unnerved to find ourselves in such an unaccountable situation.

      “OK” I said, seeing her distress, and bending down to pick up a small stone, then holding out my closed fists before her.

“If you guess right we’ll go right; and if not we’ll go the other way . . . that all right?”

      She considered for a moment and then, with a look of resignation she said “Oh, right”.

      God I thought, since neither of us can tell, it’s now a fifty fifty choice. I waited for her to choose which hand.

      “Which one?” I asked again, thinking she had forgotten.

      “I told you; right . . . wake up at the back”

      “It was a timely joke, and it lifted our spirits a little as we started out on this tunnel of a track. It meandered a little but both of us felt that it was inclined mostly to the left. Occasionally we encountered a sharper turn but each time it was to the left. At least I thought, we are not wondering aimlessly and it should bring us to something, or somewhere.

      We had been walking the path for an hour or more when unexpectedly my wife stopped and pointed. This time she could not stop the tears, and neither could we disguise the unease we both were feeling.

      It was fear pure and simple, for there in the silent half light was the mossy stone on which I had sat; and there was the ‘rotten’ tree trunk which had collapsed, unable to bear the weight of a weary traveller. But what caused our fear and disbelief, was that now, magically, the broken trunk was recovered to an upright and living condition.

      More frightening however was the little cottage which was now clearly visible just a little further along the path, which we must have passed when we set off after our little rest more than an hour earlier. True, it was set back a little way from the path, but neither of us could understand how we could have missed it.

      “I’m certain it was not there last time.” I could hear a frightened whisper in my ear. “I’m sure we would have seen it.”

      “But if it wasn’t there then, how can it be there now?”

      It was a question that didn’t need an answer, for it was to myself that it was directed, my own self belief being tested.

Just then we stopped as if frozen when the door of the cottage opened and out came a young lady with an armful of washing and carrying what looked like a peg bag. She went to a line at the side of the house and stared to peg out her shirts and blouses, underwear and overwear. Then she stopped, looking in our direction as though she had just seen us.

      Then she waved!  “Good afternoon.” she called out “I’m sorry to stare at you but you startled me a little; we don’t get many visitors in the forest , are you just out for a walk?”

      She was very young, perhaps twenty, tall, slim but not skinny, and seemed to have a sunny disposition. Her smile was sweet and gay, and she seemed to be as pleased to see us as we were to see her. She was dressed rather poorly, quaintly even, and her long dark skirt belied the heat of the day.   However, her white blouse did look rather cooler, and her head was neatly covered with a silky scarf, though not completely enough to stop her long fair tresses falling on her shoulders.

      The little clearing in which the cottage stood was bathed in sunshine and birds were flying amongst the trees. For the first time since we had entered the wood, we could hear the sounds, the rustles and the crackles, that one would expect in a woodland environment.

      It seemed so natural that the incongruity of the situation was lost on us. More important was the sense of relief we felt that now we should be able to find our way out.

      “To tell you the truth we are lost.”  My wife called out, eager to shed the feeling of apprehension, and anxious to take advantage of this bit of good fortune.

      “We’ve been in the wood for a few hours now, and we can’t seem to find our way out”

      By now the lady had come to her gate, and gave us another wide smile. “Yes, it’s a bit difficult; there aren’t many paths in this remote part of the forest.”

      “You must be tired, would you like a drink to see you on your way?”

      “My wife gave me a quick glance, uncertain perhaps, and still - as I was myself - very mixed up. But I didn’t say anything to stop her, and besides, it was suddenly warm again; the atmosphere decidedly less hostile.

      “I’ve just made some lemonade which I know will refresh you.” she added.

      Her smile, her inviting manner, and the bait of refreshing lemonade was too much.  “That would be lovely.” We spoke almost in unison, and walked towards the gate which the young lady opened as we approached.

      “It’s a bit stuffy in the house; why don’t you sit there in the shade while I fetch the lemonade?” indicating a bench under the shady branches of a Sycamore.

      We sat down and waited, wondering, bemused.  How could we not have seen the cottage and the clearing?. It should be sinister as the wood had been; but it was not. Why had the wood felt so sinister? And why had we felt so frightened and alone?.

      The lady reappeared carrying a wooden tray on which were four wooden beakers. “There you are.” she said as she handed a beaker to my wife, and then one to me.

      “I think you will enjoy my lemonade.” she said as she took a beaker herself, and then putting the tray and the other tumbler on the ground by her side.

      Indeed we did.

      My wife, in the way that ladies somehow can, asked the question that was also on my mind.

      “Who is the other drink for . . . your husband perhaps?”

      “Oh no” she laughed, but there was a pause before she said “It’s just a spare if one of you would like some more.”

      “Yes please” I said bending down and stretching to reach. “it really is very refreshing.”

      The warm and pleasant ambiance disappeared when I picked up the beaker, only to find that it was empty. The mystery of the whole episode returned and once more I felt uneasy. Our host noticed as I put down the empty beaker on the grass by my side.

      “I’m sorry I seem to have used the beaker with a crack in it, but never mind, I will go and get some more.”

      “No, we must get on, and you have been very kind.”

      I had noticed that there was no sign of any lemonade on the tray, supposedly from the cracked beaker, and anyway, I thought we had both had enough excitement for one day.

      “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us how to get out of the wood, and we will be on our way.”

      “You must have missed the lane at the end of the round.” she said. “if you go back the way you came its on this side.” raising her left hand as she spoke

      It was not until we were well on the way that either of us spoke. It was so unreal, for now that we were back in the wood it was cold again. Cold and silent. But at least we knew that we would find a lane, and it would be on our left.

      We walked with renewed vigour, and in truth the hospitality we had recently enjoyed had revived our sprits, not to mention tired limbs and aching bones, so we were making quite good progress on this confined pathway. Even so we judged that we must have gone more than half way round 'The Round’, as the young lady had called it.

      “I’m sure we haven’t missed it; I’ve been looking very carefully.”

      “Me too, but it’s looking odd again”

      Another half an hour and suddenly there it was, much further than we had expected, but just ahead on the left was a little area where the trees were thinner, and the lane was next to it, visible in spite of it being very much overgrown.

      What a relief, and we both allowed ourselves the luxury of a smile.

      Something made me pause, then stop. There was something odd, mysterious. That tree at the edge of the clearing. I was staring at it. How many tree make a wood?; and how many trees make a forest? I don’t know, and I don’t how many trees I had seen during the day, but I knew for certain that I had seen that tree before.

      It was the Sycamore under which we had sheltered from the sun, enjoyed the hospitality from a smiling and charming young lady, while dranking her lemonade. I waked across to get a closer look. I could not understand why there was no sign of the cottage, other than some piles of rubble, nearly hidden by the overgrowth. As I walked around I saw something on the ground and bent down to pick it up. Then, just ahead, beyond the lane, I saw the stone where I had rested when we had first come upon ‘the round’; and the decayed tree, on which my wife had tried to rest, but this time it was broken and crushed once more, just as we had left it when it had refused to be sat upon. If there had been any doubt that it was the same clearing; the same tree, that doubt was now gone.

      “Come on,“I said, getting hold of my wife’s arm. “let’s get out of here while we can; I can’t take much more of this.”

      We walked and trotted, and ignoring beating hearts and tired legs, we covered as much distance as we could and as quickly as we could, hoping and praying that we would not find ourselves back at the cottage again.

      The lane was a little wider than 'The Round' we had just left, but still under a canopy of overhanging leaves, and as it curved first to the left and then to the right, it was still like walking in a tunnel if not quite so dense. Suddenly, and wonderfully I could see the signs of sunlight ahead. I reached out squeezed my wife’s hand.

      “I think we are nearly there.”

      “The light at the end of the tunnel.” she was saying, as though reading my thoughts.

      In just a few minutes we were at the edge of the wood where the little lane emerges from the wood onto a country road which ran down into the valley and to the village; our intended target when we started the walk in the morning.

      I looked at my watch - nearly seven, though the sun was still quite high, and warm.

      “Too late for afternoon tea,” I said, “but if they will let us in at the restaurant dressed like this I’ll treat you to a nice meal.”

      “Ooh yes please,” my wife answered, “I’m starving!”

      It was early, and there were other customers of the restaurants dressed as casually as we, so there was no problem about being served. Soon we were tucking in, our appetites sharpened by the events of the day.

      While we were drinking our coffee the waiter came to see that all was well and that we had enjoyed the meal.

      “We certainly have,” I answered, “and we were ready for it.”

      “You been walking very far then?” he asked in an easy and friendly manner.

      “Not really,” my wife broke in, “but we found ourselves in the wood on top of the hill, and then we couldn’t find our way out . . . took us ages.”

      “Oh you mean ‘Robins' wood: it used to be part of an enormous forest , but it’s not big now, I can’t see how you could have got lost in there. It's only about a few hundred yards across now.”

      He was clearly amused, but neither of us wanted to get too involved in how big the wood was.  But my wife was intrigued. “Why do they call it Robins Wood?” she asked

      “Can’t say for sure, but the story goes that many years ago; a hundred or is it two hundred; a man who lived in a cottage in the wood was hanged for killing his wife and her lover. Just before he died he said that they were buried ‘somewhere’ in the forest', but they say that their bodies were never found.”

      “Maybe he was Robin!” he added.

      “Maybe she was Robyn!” my wife suggested, a half smile just creasing her cheeks.

      “Or maybe Robin was the lover.” My contribution, though it was no more positive than the others.

      We finished our coffee, thanked the waiter, and then set of on another longish walk to our accommodation back over the ridge.

      It was with a feeling of immense relief that we finally got to our small hotel, and the sanctuary of our room. It had been a day we would not forget in a long time, and I didn’t expect that we would be getting much sleep. In any event we talked long into the small hours, unable to put it out of our minds.

      Especially me, for I felt that I had solved the riddle; at least a part of it.

    “Don’t you see?” I tried to explain, “when we walked ‘the round’ the first time, we went anti-clockwise . . . back in time. That’s why we had to go all the way round again . . . to get back to our own time. If the lady had not sent us back the way we came, we would have been lost forever.”

      Sleep was now beginning to claim her, and I don’t think my wife heard or understood my meaning, any more to be honest than I did myself.  No matter I thought, as I settled down, hoping that I too might find sleep.

      “In the morning would it will seem just like a dream.” I heard her saying half awake, half asleep.              

      ‘I wonder’; my last thought as I started to doze, for now, safely put away in my rucksack, was the cracked wooden beaker, found in the long grass in the clearing where once had been the cottage, where I had laid it down maybe two hundred years before.