The woods are just trees
The trees are just wood
I have no fear nor no one should
Today, I took advantage of the fact that my parents were around to go on a little trip into the local woods with the Boy. Opa came with us, but we left Oma at home to look after the Girl. She needed a sit down after hoovering my stairs and cleaning my bathroom.
I love the fact that we have a small wood just across the road. I hardly ever visit it, though. One reason is that the paths are inaccessible for buggies. This makes the wood all the more natural and charming, but it means I haven’t really ventured forth into it for the past three years. As soon as the Boy was old enough to be able to manage the walk with confidence, the Girl arrived. So today, Oma watched her as she tested various objects around the house for their usefulness as a walker, while Opa, the Boy and I set out on our forest adventure.
The Boy always wants to take things with him on outings. These were his objects of choice today:
The reason you need two spare adults (one to mind the baby and one to come along) for a trip to our local forest became apparent to my Dad as soon as we got to the entrance.
“It’s not a very clean wood,” he said, surveying the bouquet of freshly trampled beer cans, discarded crisp wrappers, empty packets of biscuits and used condoms artfully displayed among the foliage.
Yes. We live in a run-down area and what happens in the forest when no one is looking I will leave up to your imagination. Suffice it to say that it is good not to go in alone, just in case. And not to go in after dark. Or stay too long. Before children, I once went running there with a friend and we encountered a police man. The forest was part of his beat, it seemed. He was strolling along, looking reassuring, and nodded a greeting as we jogged past.
“I’m not sure we could get the better of any attackers if there were three of them.” My Dad, always the academic, set about analysing the probabilities once I’d explained that he was our body guard.
“It’s okay,” I said, surveying a large branch lying across the path, “There are plenty of improvised weapons around.”
“Still… If there were three of them…”
“We wouldn’t need to beat them, we’d just need to stall them enough that we could run away.”
My Dad still looked doubtful, so I thought I’d impart some of my husband’s best self-defence wisdom: “Aim for the eyes. Everyone will naturally move to protect their eyes – then you run.”
“But wouldn’t they catch us? They’d be faster.” We were further into the wood by now. The debris had thinned a bit and the sun came out, lighting up the path ahead.
“Monkey! I see monkey inna tree,” the Boy exclaimed, entirely unphased and unaware of our rather morbid conversation.
“Wow, you can see a monkey?” I asked. “Shall we collect some different shaped leaves to go in your doctor’s case?”
“Yes. Love a different shapes,” he declared, pulling fistfuls of leaves off the nearest bush and stuffing them into the case.
“And scream. You could scream really loudly. But that’s not easy to do,” my Dad said, still studying our potential predicament from all angles.
We came to the edge of the wood, where you can stand on a raised bank and look out over the fields.
“Wow!” the Boy said. “Farm.”
“Somebody lit a fire here,” my Dad remarked, peering into the ditch. Burned branches and charred beer cans.
All in all, we decided it was wisest to take the Boy’s collection of leaves straight home to Oma, and headed back out of the forest. We took a bit more time wandering through the streets, letting the Boy stop and collect flowers.
“Need all-a colours of a rainbow,” he said. “Present for Oma.”
Into the woods, and out of the woods
and home before dark.*
*Not my poetry. Song lyrics from Sondheim’s musical “Into the Woods”.