On Easter Sunday I took my troubles to the Skirrid Mountain, and the wind carried them away.
The Skirrid is one of my favourite mountains. Not difficult to climb, as there is a well used path maintained by the National Trust, and you climb up to the ridge, and then along to the summit.
The ascent is through a woodland, and yesterday it was full of birdsong, and so many wild flowers.
Primroses were blooming beneath the stalks of last years bracken, which will soon grow and cover them up. The brambles were beginning to sprout as well.
Lots of violets too. I was reminded of Oberon's speech in Midsummer Night's Dream;
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
There aren't any roses on the Skirrid, but plenty of woodbine beginning to grow, and little wood anenomes. Wild strawberry leaves, and of course the first bluebells. There used to be wild thyme, but I couldn't see any yesterday.
There are some magical dead trees, covered in moss.
And near the top of the ascent before stepping onto the ridge, hawthorn. I imagine immortal spirits sitting in these hawthorn trees watching humankind as it trudges up the mountain and back down again.
The Skirrid accepts the scars that countless feet have made on its back, and it accepts all who walk along it, however fast or slow.
It was very cloudy and grey yesterday. There was little of the usually wonderful view on display. Just some silhouettes and faint shapes beyond the gorse.
It was so windy that I didn't stop at the summit. Feeling that the wind might knock me over, I turned round immediately and walked carefully back along the ridge. Some trees seemed to be doing the same thing.
Walking back through the greening woodland, I felt the mountain working its magic, and my spirits were lifted.
When the rain came the tiny sound of the raindrops filled the air, which smelled sweet and fresh. I felt absolutely blessed.
