Tarzan in the mist

When I was little, every tree had a rope swing on it. Usually they were tame reflections of the playground variety. Some, like this one, swung out over a bank with a hefty drop beneath!

The rope usually broke after weeks of abrasion against the bark and being out in all weathers, then was replaced, the new over the old until the whole branch was festooned.

The woods were deathly quiet this morning, at this point we had even lost the early winter robin song and the barking of the dog fox on the golf course, it made me think that the tree, maybe, had more sinister uses in days gone by. Then Tess dragged me off.

The mist was swirling in the pre-dawn light. Think Jabberwocky.