Murmuring in our ears at near subaudible levels, the forest seems to draw us closer. It is whispering something, so we lean in, heads tilted, to catch the words. We are walking through a fairytale landscape: a gruffalo hiding behind every tree trunk, under every bridge a troll. The air is so still, yet so thrumming with life, it’s hard to shake the feeling that it is listening to us more than we are to it.
A jay’s sudden alarm call rattles out like a struck washboard, and is just as quickly smothered by soft, wet air. Every pine needle is stitched to the next with spider’s silk and the whole forest is aglitter with diamante necklaces, each with a resident brown‑and‑gold flecked spider dead centre like a tiger’s eye pendant.
