Walk Photography

the way through the woods by rudyard kipling 'they shut the road through the woods seventy years ago. weather and rain have undone it again, and now you would never know there was once a path through the woods before they planted the trees, it is underneath the coppice and heath, and the thin anemones. only the keeper sees that, where the ring-dove broods, and the badgers roll at ease, there was once a road through the woods. yet, if you enter the woods of a summer evening late, when the night-air cools on the trout-ring'd pools where the otter whistles his mate, (they fear not men in the woods because they see few) you will hear the beat of a horse's feet and the swish of a skirt in the dew, steadily cantering through the misty solitudes, as though they perfectly knew the old lost road through the woods... but there is no road through the woods.'

visited the birks a few weeks ago

hanging out at the rocks

just a magical tree

cool old house

The Fairies by William Allingham ‘Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He’s nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist  Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen  Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridgit For seven years long; When she came down againHer friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wakes. By the craggy-hillside, Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather!’

found a walk to an old fort up a hill, there was also a cool pictish stone in the town i visited