THE TRAIL OF THE WITCH
I stood at the edge of the forest in the rain, as ashen grey clouds thickened above. It was one of those days when the sun refuses to make an appearance. I stood there contemplating whether to climb over the barbwire. It was a small forest by European standards. English forests are small and shabby. You can walk from one side to the other of most of them in an afternoon. They’re far too small to get lost in, unless you venture in after dark. The sun that hadn’t shone was going down behind the leafless oaks. It was cold after the March rain. The birds had begun to sing again, but the day carried no warmth. The wild garlic had risen out from the sodden mud. The land was at that point before the warmth of spring, when everything waits in expectation, trees, plants, animals, all waiting for the warmth of the sun. When the sun hits, everything bursts into life and the stillness of Winter is forgotten by all but human kind. I didn’t fancy getting lost. The leafless forest woul