An annual pilgrimage to Helmeth Hill, some fabulous spring woods. Before I even get there the track takes me through a mass of flowers – stitchwort, vetch, red campion, soapwort. Soft foxglove leaves and unfurling bracken fronds bring future promise. Knarled hazels and alders mark the damp ground, and marsh marigolds tumble down the path of a stream. Delicate wood sorrels colonise the moss of fallen trunks; there’s a wiff of wild garlic on the wind; my pace is measured by the drumming of a woodpecker.
Once inside the wood, birdsong takes over, drowning out the woodpecker, the lambs, even the ravens on the hills. The path rises steeply and I take it slowly: there’s so much to see. It’s mainly ash and coppiced hazel, open enough to allow the anemones, bluebells, violets, sorrel and garlic to flourish: a tapestry of blues, pinks, white and green. Mossy trunks and decaying stumps have their own beauty, many home to bracket fungi. Honeysuckle scrambles over others. Hollies add a dark, wintery note.
Later, the oaks take over. It’s more enclosed here, the steep slopes so densely awash with bluebells that little else has a chance. Today is dull, but even so they radiate light. In sunshine, the iridescent combination of violet blue and emerald spring green is dazzling. I’ve waited longer than ever this year. Now I simply stand, and enjoy.
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