I think, when Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he had strolled in a forest like mine. Perhaps he had strolled in this very forest.
On evenings like this, words fail me. And so does my camera. For an English forest in the heat of midsummer, emerald-green, fairy-enchanted, filled with furtive birds and lazy wingborne creatures: an English forest is simply a fairytale.
Tonight the air was heavy with the perfume of pine and honeysuckle and there were patches of light which must surely have been bewitched. Languid sun shone through the leaves and possessed them, warm wind shimmered each line and detail of emerald so that a personality emerged, right there, in that very patch of light.
And for all the world, its seemed possible that Titania stood behind a tree just out of sight, and Oberon postured beyond the turn in the path.
Days like this: they frustrate the wordsmith in me. The blowsy, browsy warmth of an early English teatime, far from the madding crowds of London and the workplaces of the towns nearby, it will not be pinned down. The mesmerising light cannot be contained on a flat, man-made pixel-trap.
This is wild light, the kind you long to bottle. Fairy-light.