Leith Hall

After the early bird raid on the Huntly Hairst, went to that liminal of places, Leith Hall, to meet a cousin for tea and walk the gardens.  Was too early, so walked to the pond thinking of chi gunging the pine forest as I used to of a Saturday morning when there was nobody around.  Was horrified to find the ancient pine trees had been felled.  All of them.  The soil scarred by the machinery that had burst through it all.  Ravaging the forest.  The air still scented with resin.  It was a cool blue-green forest I have practiced chi gung in several times in the past.  Drummed the earth with footsteps the way only pine-needled earth can drum.  All that spooky, pine-scented, twilit teal-blue gone.  Realised how completely the trees had muted all other sounds, absorbing them.  The railway line just beyond, the sheep in the fields.  And now, the trains are still loudly on time, but there is no birdsong.  There was no horizon as the pines had not grown in straight lines, but like a real fairytale forest, obscured the route through, forcing a slow pace to meander your way through to a good spot.  The dappled light, now harsh and strong.  Surrounding hills now visible and too green.  The fungi edging that forest was amazing, purples bright as methylated spirits, butter yellows, burnt orange, bitter chocolate, white horseshoes glowing.  Gone.  Found a beech tree stump that had sprouted young branches in defiance.  Good for it.  Suppose the sale of the wood could have helped pay for the pot holes in the driveway to be filled, the renovation of the gardens, but probably was just some health and safety nut making bad decisions.  This is why I don’t go out; there’s always something to break your heart.