Wild Wood

Went to Tunstall woods this morning, a place I've been walking in for over fifteen years, a small patch of ancient woodland which goes back centuries. I've walked there in all seasons but never with a camera. It's at this time of the year that the woods seem most mysterious with fungi appearing overnight, the dead and dying trees reabsorbing themselves back into the earth. On the floor were scarlet berries of rowan shaken down overnight in the fierce gales like drops of blood. Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, all the terrifying tales of childhood in this one tangled wood. The wind sighed through the dry leaves punctuated by the outraged craaak of pheasants as the dogs flushed them out the undergrowth. Poor birds. They rush about in a frenzy, not yet realising that they'll soon have more than dogs to contend with.