I grew up on the edge of Epping Forest. Literally the edge. The gate in our back garden opened onto a wood filled with elm and oak trees, silver birches, holly, elderberry and blackberry bushes and, in the spring, a carpet of flowering bluebells.
In summer the wood became our playground - a magical one where our imaginations would turn the bushes and trees into hideouts for pirates or castles for princesses or stables to keep our imaginary horses.
In the autumn, the changing colours of the leaves would provide a pallete of reds and golds, and then eventually the stark, naked branches against a wintry sky would provide their own beauty and let us know Christmas was on it's way.
I traded that in for the Sintra hills several years ago where the trees are mostly evergreen pine trees with spikey needles and pine cones. There a few trees here and there that will provide a semblance of that glorious autumn pallette and a reminder of a childhood long left behind.
In summer the wood became our playground - a magical one where our imaginations would turn the bushes and trees into hideouts for pirates or castles for princesses or stables to keep our imaginary horses.
In the autumn, the changing colours of the leaves would provide a pallete of reds and golds, and then eventually the stark, naked branches against a wintry sky would provide their own beauty and let us know Christmas was on it's way.
I traded that in for the Sintra hills several years ago where the trees are mostly evergreen pine trees with spikey needles and pine cones. There a few trees here and there that will provide a semblance of that glorious autumn pallette and a reminder of a childhood long left behind.
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