Old Stones - the first

I much prefer to start the journey from the village, following the curve of the lane as it rises up and through, past the cottage called Mole End (guaranteed to win a place in my heart), past the tiny white cottage with its bright blue hen house, the white trim of it carved into hearts and hens.

Now, here, we leave the village behind. The yellow lane narrows even further, becomes steeper, the surface pitted and shaped by the water that runs off the hill. The tree cover becomes thicker, branches almost meeting overhead and shading us from the weather. Sounds of the village drop away and voices hush naturally.

We are heading for the Elephant.

Here the yellow path splits into two, becomes separate paths and we must decide which fork. We go left. This is the path I walked so many times, so long ago, with my dog, his tail a plumed marker. Each step is familiar, each tree and hedge. I can anticipate where the path will dip, fall away, regain itself. I can recall where the repeated actions of mountain bikes have eroded away the surface and I will need to scramble, to lean against the tussocky mounds of the high verge to steady myself.

This path will take us past the King and Queen, their role as healers, judges and benevolent guardians forgotten now. Where once sick babies were passed through the gap between them, the land has slipped and slid, widening the space for a man. Where once the people would gather to hear the outcome of a conflict, the brambles and undergrowth have risen to block the path down. Now their majesties sit, undisturbed, overlooked, their gaze ever towards the valley they've watched over for centuries. We salute, we move on. Our own gaze is on the path ahead, as it steepens, breathing quickens and attention narrows to one-foot-in-front-of-the-other.

Now the land evens out and the yellow path disappears under the smooth velvet of grass, close cropped by generations of rabbits and deer. The turf rolls and curls under our feet, wild shrub encroaches, blocking our view even as the land drops gently away to the eastern side of the hill. We pause, draw in air so fresh it almost hurts. There is the sound of hoofbeats as something unseen canters towards us, turns and canters away over the curve of the land. Our eyes widen at each other. Today, the ghost pond is hiding its secrets under the grey-blue of the sky. From all around us, birdsong.

Now we open the gate into the wood, the light dimming further as the latch clicks shut behind us. Here the path is a dusty sulphur-grey, little clouds of it scudding ahead of our feet; overhead, the branches rustle and creak, knocking against each other like charms hanging from a witch's porch. Through the trees to our right, we can see the fields beyond, richly brown, turned and ready for planting. To the left, the old stone wall, green and bedecked in its velvet moss coat maintains its unsteady gait, following the curve of the land before dropping away where the landslides have taken it tumbling to the old abandoned settlements below.

In the stumps of fallen trees, fungi and lichen have moved in, their strange shapes softening sharp edges. Here the blackened buttons of King Alfred's Cakes, the silken ruffles of Wood Ear, all reflected in the dark pools of water that gather in the hollow of fallen alder. Peering over, faces are distorted, noses fill with the smell of wet wood, decomposing leaves. We jump as a crow caws suddenly, cracking the hush with its harsh jeer. Above us, it takes off, joins its murder in the skies.

And now we break through, break out, the gate creaking as it swings shut behind us. The wood drops away to let us out into the wide open space, the final field before our destination and we are running across the path worn smooth, laughing as we race towards it, through the final gate, up and over the ditch, down and down and into the hollow and throwing our arms around the Elephant, the cragged surface of its skin, the solidity of its body a joy under our hands and we are here, we are here, we are here.