Wednesday 18th September
I spent a lovely couple of hours in the local library studying the history of the Forest of Dean. The imprint of the history accompanied me on my walk on Monday but I wasn't sure why. Now I know why.
I was right to be curious because the history of the forest is, perhaps, what defines it. I felt very much in a world cut off from the rest and that would appear to be how the forest has been viewed through time. Traditionally, a source of oak for the English navel ships the forest industry was established layered with enormous feelings of pride.
The forest workers were known to be tough souls and not ones to mix beyond the confines of the trees. When mining began and took hold in the 19th century still the pride remained. The forest economy was booming but on the backs of men whose daily work schedules would test the best of us. Micro industries like charcoal extraction came and went but still they worked and still the pride deepened.
I came across more than one story about outsiders who ventured into the forest and committed cromes against some of the community. The response from the rest of the community was immediate and frightening. The foresters own justice took hold and the stories that unfolded ensured less and less outsiders entered the forest. I felt that as I walked. I could feel a chill round a shadowed corner and felt my pace quicken in response. I had wondered whether I felt this as I was walking alone but now I understand the sense of presence brooding against the old oak tree or hiding behind a holly bush.
Mother Nature softens the experience as the early autumn edibles makes their show and the books are full of references to the spring bluebells. Foxgloves romped across the shady edges in the summer as the leaf canopies spread their natural and very definite stories. Today the forest is a pull for tourists but also the film crews for historical dramas like Merlin. You do expect to hear horse hooves thundering up behind you at any time. The forest now celebrates its industrial past with sculptures to tell the tale. However stunning some of the sculptures, it is the deep and authentic sense of history you feel as you walk the paths. Having changed boundaries constantly through history the Forest of Dean is often referred to as a country in itself and I can quite believe that. Once you emerge from the forest you can't help feeling that you have left something behind. Was it the harsh voice from an angered forester as you trespass his land? It may well be but whatever it is you know you will be back one day.
When I return I will understand the test of the forest more keenly and appreciate the sculptures that tell their own historical tales. I already understand that the moment spent with the woodpecker and the half second of light on the willow as it rippled the pond is only part of the story. The rest is told by the people who lived a hard but deeply belonging life. In my studies on the concept of belonging I have accidently stumbled on a true and integral sense of belonging that is contained by physical boundaries but also expressed through historical rhetoric. I am glad I took the time to study the forest and converted vague feelings into known tales that, I doubt, I will ever forget.
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