Tanglewood. It’s a woodland, or rather an old conifer plantation that has tied itself in knots. Mossy knolls, peaty pools and festooned larches gather together in this dark place to entice and ensnare the unwary. I’ve been inexplicably pulled to this forest for years, ever since I met a solitary sycamore that somehow thrives in the dark void of dank resin breath.
Always an edgy place and not somewhere to be caught after dark I was taught a lesson in these depths not many weeks ago. An all day medicine walk led me to the centre of the place as dusk bared it’s teeth on the moor drenched horizon and I was cock sure of my way out. Of course Tanglewood had other ideas.
In the brooding light I passed an unknown pool of peat treacled water and was taken aback by it’s pure, cold darkness. Stunned, drawn and repulsed simultaneously I determined to return at a friendlier time of day. Of course Tanglewood had other ideas.
Twenty minutes later in a panic of lost light I circled right round back to the place and knew I was lost. Utterly and totally out of my realm, I felt the prickle of tension grasp the scruff of my neck as the shadows laughed in my sallow face.
Slowing my pace, finding my breath I eventually found my way and the exit path which led me to the final sun glimmers of open space, but the dark water seeped under my skin and now the place and I have an uneasy alliance.
Returning in daylight and plotting my path I found these photos, and the beginnings of a dark journey into the real Tanglewood.