Wild

An hour from the city and a perpetual mist pervades the landscape. Trees and shrubbery flash past the windows as the train travels across the country.

There’s a certain magic to the British countryside in Autumn.

How old is that stone wall? Those are cows I’m pretty certain.

Maybe.

Twisting brambles grasp and seize at flyaway scarves and coat tails. Don’t go too close. You might get lost in the thicket.

Headlights in fog and street lamps reflecting on wet pavements, small forgotten towns and a lone magpie sat on what used to be a street sign.

This land is old. And lived. And breathing.

Even the fields follow the hills. We are guests on this land. I think we are just starting to remember.

The trees look a stark green against the grey of the sky. The windy beaches almost blow us away.

Whispers of all things old.

Fairy circles aren’t real of course but you still won’t step into the middle of that mushroom ring.

The waters of the lochs are too dark, too cold. That horse has something wild in its eye. Don’t touch it. The Kelpies are waiting.

And that light in the distance? Flickering in the fog. Could be campers. Maybe not. Not at this time of year.

Damp leaves rustle and flit on the ground, waiting for a gust to send them soaring skyward, twisting and dancing on the breeze.

Morning brings a bite. A crystal white coat to cover the land. Jack Frost has been and gone, leaving a glistening trail behind. Be careful you don’t slip.

We would do well to remember the old magic.

The wild untamed essence of home.