#ancient ways

Wistmans Wood is strange and twisted woodland and is thought to be one of the few remnants of ancient woodland dating from prehistoric times.

The wood consists of stunted oaks growing in an area of many moss covered boulders.

Legend has it that Wistmans Wood was a sacred grove of the Druid’s and it was here that they held there pagan rituals.

Take a moment every day to look around you and feel the colors, enjoy the colors.

"The Cold genius song" - Purcell - Gérard Lesne / Juliette Roumailhac - ...

(Air extrait de "King Arthur") de Henry Purcell. - Gérard Lesne, contre-ténor - Juliette Roumailhac, direction et violon - Tami Troman, violon - Myriam Bulloz, alto - Magdalena Probe, violoncelle - Matthias Spaeter, théorbe - Jacopo Raffaele, clavecin

When I was but a little boy Who hunted in the wood To scare or mangle or destroy A freakish elemental joy That tasted life and found it good

I hardly heard the awful ban That mutters round the free, But followed where the waters ran, And wondered when the pipe of Pan Shook silence with its minstrelsy.

Where sun-spray glittered on my limbs I danced, and laughed, and trilled My happy incoherent hymns, Sped only by the whirling whims With which my eager heart was filled.

The wind was glad and so was I; My soul lay open wide, Reflecting all the starry sky; The swallows called to me to fly; I dreamed of how the fishes glide.

But while my errant feet were set On mosses cool and sweet, The great grey phantoms brooding met Within the shades, and cast a net With dreary charms about my feet.

They pent me in a barren place, A city, so they said, Of gallant wonder-working grace But haunted, haunted by a race Of rigid unperceptive dead.

With sightless eyes they pored on books, And scrawled on many a sheet Their regimental strokes and hooks, And stalked about with pompous looks, Top-hatted, in the civil street.

I strove to flee, but everywhere Met solid-seeming walls; And yet I knew the world was fair, And, hearkening well, heard, even there, A bird and distant waterfalls.

And love which I had scarcely known Leaped upward as I heard; I blessed the creek, the mossy stone, The fern along the gully strown, The little beasts, the piping bird.

Could walls o'ermaster one who knew The world of outer light? The very shadow that they threw Was tindured with a deeper blue Because the quickening sun was bright.

I laughed aloud, as one who leaps Against a curling wave, And, as a widening ripple creeps, A shudder caught the stony steeps, And life shook, laughing, in the grave.

“O phantoms, who are you to fix Eternal towers of pride?” I mocked at their fantastic tricks, I thrust my fingers through the bricks And felt the flowers the other side.

I pricked my pointed ears to hear The love-song of the bird, And dear was every note, and dear The myriad sounds that echoed near The magically chorus'd word.

I saw the fading phantoms glare; Their tones to silence hissed. The walls bulged, brightening everywhere, And thinned and melted in the air To ragged streams of rosy mist.

Trill, happy bird, for ever trill, For I have learned to bless The great grey shades whose thwarted will Turned earth to heaven; and I am still A dweller in the wilderness

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The Faun

John Le Gay Brereton  1871-1933

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