[1]
Months of endless grey smother my fond memories of blue skies. I have been staring out this single-paned window, watching March drag on. I can bear it because I am not alone. The wind whistling through the seals is as familiar as the steady thud of rain landing on the glass. I’m joined in the wait for warmer days by trees whose bare branches sway in the breeze. Squirrels scour their bark, returning to the same hollows again and again, but like the rest of us, must remain patient. The only faint sounds heard against the wind are from tits and doves, who persist even in these dreary days.
We are all waiting for the season to change. Winter brings cold air and regular rains that shoo the birds, and cause the plants to shed their leaves. Even most trees do not have the energy to produce fruit. When the temperature falls, all life and happiness seem to retreat. I am fortunate that I can sit here, nestled in a blanket with a log burner to keep me comfortable. For every other living being without the luxury of Granny’s cottage, they have two choices; flee, or endure.
Many do not have wings of course, and so most choose the second option. I watch them during the Autumn as they shed their leaves, hide their bounty, and prepare to wait out the worst of it. I’ve come to accept that not all of them will make it to next Spring. So I do what I can, leaving seeds in the birdhouse, which both the squirrels and birds compete over.
Spring is special because I know how difficult the cold months are. It is when all who have endured celebrate the longer days by painting the world green and crying from the treetops. They signal the dark days are over for another year, and we who call this place our home respond with glee.
But this year, Winter stretches far longer than I can remember. Spring will arrive, as Granny keeps reminding me. But why does it have to keep us all waiting so long?
[2]
Preparing breakfast offers some respite from the dreary monotony of Winter days. When pulling the latch to the chicken coop, it stirs into life. Their clucking is fierce as grey light streams inside. They might be quite content to let the day pass, but it’s my turn to do the cooking, and Granny likes her eggs poached. Seven eggs await, ready to fill the kitchen with a golden hue.
Cradling breakfast in my arms, I’m too eager with the door to the porch, and the handle crashes into the wall. “Don’t slam the door!” Granny barks. Grimacing, I tug the door from the plaster and mumble an apology. When I crane my neck into the kitchen, I spot her standing by the sink, a soft grin tugging at her rosy cheeks. Her hair’s a tangle of silver wool shimmering in the dull light. “So how many eggs does it take to forget how to open a door properly?” she teases.
My shoulders relax, and I step out from the doorway, still in my pyjamas. “Either the wall cracks or the eggs do. Which would you prefer?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Chuckling, she wears a beige dress sprinkled with red petals, and takes the eggs from my arms, placing each with care in a carton. An oak chopping board is already set out, with a fresh loaf of bread resting on top. “What’ll it be today then? Dippy eggs with soldiers? French toast?” she asks, a playful twinkle in her eye.
“I fancy toast, if you could grab the ingredients for me please,” I reply.
From the cupboard, I pull out a cast iron pan, worn smooth with decades of oil absorbed from cooking thousands of eggs. It clanks onto the stove, and after a few seconds of ticking, a deep blue flame bursts from thin air. Granny passes two warm eggs to me, their shells cracking as they meet the rim of a glass bowl, and their golden yolks come sliding out with ease. I whisk these with milk, sugar, and a drop of vanilla before the slices of bread are dipped one by one into the mixture.
When each piece touches the layer of oil it crackles into life. Whilst they sizzle away, I wash the bowls at the sink. Through the rear window, dew twinkles on the lawn. The flowerbed seems to dance in the breeze. For a long moment, I watch and sway my hips to its rhythm. Then it dawns on me why it holds my attention. I press my face against the glass and see the clouds parting high in the sky. The flowers are answering Spring’s call.
My grin blossoms. I’m so thrilled I lose track of everything around me. The scent of scorched bread wafts under my nose, and Granny’s voice cuts through my haze. “Toast’s going to burn, petal,” she says, appearing over my shoulder with a knowing chuckle. “Breakfast first, it’s not like Spring is going to take a year off, is it?”.
“While you might find it hard to believe now, I’ve come to quite like Winter,” her voice trailing off.
She’s right about one thing, I can’t understand at all why you would like such a miserable season. She begins explaining why, but I can’t make sense of it as I pull the sweet remnants of last summer from the pantry: raspberry, bilberry and strawberry jam.
In a flash, I place the toast on the plate and drop a dollop of bilberry jam on top. The pan clatters when I drop it back onto the hob. When did I become so hungry? I cram in a mouthful-and-a-half whilst she wraps up her story. Then I ask “So where are we walking today then?”, my words muffled by the half-chewed bite.
At this point, she turns around as a sigh escapes, her right eyebrow raised to the ceiling, speckled black and white like her hair. “How lucky you are to have so much time and choice! But it might be easier to decide if you don’t have indigestion,” she says, her mocking tone clipping my ear.
I’m unsure which came first: whether I inherited her sense of humour, or if she became more sarcastic the closer we grew. For years, Summers have been spent here at her cottage. At first, she was strict. Television was banned, and games were only allowed after the jobs were done. My days were spent helping in the garden, preparing dinner, baking cakes, and cleaning the house. I resented her for it at first, but over time, we found some common ground.
Six mouthfuls are enough to finish off the toast, which I wash down with a few gulps of tea from my mug. Sunlight already floods the room by the time I finish the last dregs; it’s time to go. “Come on, we’re wasting half the morning!” I call out. But to my surprise, Granny stands in the hallway, already dressed in her wax jacket, a lilac scarf snug around her neck, and a pair of mittens dangling from her hands.
With a jolly smile and cheeks flushed pink, Granny looks more cheerful than ever. “And will you be going out in your pyjamas?” she teases, her tone smug. I glance down and realise, a bit startled, that I’m still wearing my checked pyjamas. I bound upstairs, throwing on a pair of dungarees, and grab the first mismatched socks I can find, before heading back to the porch.
She waits in the doorway, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “We’ll be needing these if you’re planning on taking us for a wander.” She tosses the mittens at me, which I fumble for a moment before pulling them on. I turn toward the door, slip on my wellies, and as I grip the handle, the sunlight stretches across the room, signalling it’s time to go.
[3]
The first breaths of spring produce wisps of steam, rising into the crisp morning air. Collared doves coo their welcome as we step outside. The breeze whispers through the shrubs in the driveway as if the garden itself lets out a long, deep exhale. We cut through the garden, finding the path. I’ve walked this route a thousand times, yet every season it changes into something I barely recognise.
The cobblestones wind through Granny’s vegetable garden, where parsnips and Brussels sprouts stand tall as they prepare to be picked. The crab apple tree watches over the gate at the far end leading to the track. Today, its branches are gnarled and bare, but soon green shoots will emerge in the days before Summer.
The gate creaks as it swings open, revealing the haggard hedgerow that lines the path to our destination. For now, it lies quiet beside my favourite tree—Old Walnut. Later in the year, he’ll share his fruit, and we’ll collect his walnuts to roast and savour once Spring ripens into Summer.
On the horizon, the hedgerow disappears into a thin haze that veils the Big Wood. Like the scarves Granny wraps around her neck on cool mornings, it drifts over the set-aside fields on either side of the valley. Sensing my distraction, she asks, “So, what is it you like so much about Spring anyway?” Her gaze drifts ahead as if pondering the answer herself while waiting for mine.
I pause for a moment, my mind blank, before answering from the heart. “Because we wait so long for dull days to turn into ones full of life. One day the forest floor is just mud and puddles, and the next, it blooms with bluebells and stitchwort. For months, it feels like life abandons this place. But it always returns, like seeing an old friend after time apart. Even on the darkest days, I have hope, because I know brighter ones are always on their way,” I say, my voice trailing off.
She continues to gaze ahead, but her scarf only half hides the small grin that grows on her face. I suppose I have her to thank for my love of Spring. When I was younger, I wasn’t interested in walking. I would’ve rather stayed indoors, glued to my Gameboy or watching television. But, as she reminded me countless times, it was her home, so her rules. For years, I’d watch the days drift by and wait for sunset so I could play my games. But being here for many Summers has softened me. With time, my eyes opened and I tuned into the world around me—a world I’d never noticed before. The games lost their appeal, and I grew more fascinated with the outdoors with every passing month. Whether that was her intention, I’ll never know.
A question lingers on my tongue, and as a silence of contemplation fills the air, it comes tumbling out, “So how can you like Winter?”
“I thought you might ask. Winters here are indeed cold, grey, and often dark. We wrap up warm, stoke the fire, and get supplies from the market to keep our tummies full. I get it – you’d much rather enjoy the sunshine and chase butterflies. But the more days of Winter I have seen, the more I have come to appreciate them. I’ve learned when your knees start to creak and the skin wrinkles on the back of your hands, you look back on those days with fondness.” she explains.
Her words are cut short as the edge of the forest appears. In a few steps, the mist clears, revealing a thick woodland.
[4]
A palisade of intertwined branches and bramble guards our way. Above, chiffchaffs natter, their calls no doubt debating the arrival of these rogue intruders. The forest seems to bar entry to outsiders, allowing only friends to enter. As we approach, our footsteps rouse a ripple in the undergrowth.
We are not strangers though. Where the hedgerow meets the forest, a path opens up. Deer, who graze these fringes, have worn a trail through the branches, just wide enough for those who belong to the woods. I bow my head and whisper, “Hello, it’s good to see you again,” before stepping through.
Inside, the forest is dappled with sunlight. Warm rays drape the ground, painting the earth with bursts of orange and yellow. The air smells of damp decay as we squelch through the mud and fallen leaves. But when I look a little closer, I spot the first green shoots pushing through the soil.
Ahead of me, Granny stands with her cheek pressed to a tree, her hands resting against its rough bark. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach.
Her palms press as if she is checking my head for a fever. “What do you notice about this tree?” she asks, her eyes now tracing the trunk. I step back, scanning the tree from root to crown. It’s an ash, a common species here. Its branches are bare, and its bark is mottled with green patches. Last year’s leaves form a dark ring around its base, as worms and insects work their way through the decay. It looks just as I would expect it to.
I turn to follow her gaze. Where the branches meet the trunk, small splodges blacken the bark. I point to the dark patch, drawing her attention to it.
She nods, a solemn expression shadowing her face. “This is ash dieback. It’s a fungus that will kill the tree in time. It’s already taken hold—the leaves have turned black, and now it’s spreading to the bark,” she explains.
“Is there anything we can do?” I ask, my voice betraying a hint of helplessness.
Her gaze drifts downward, following the line of the branch to the ground, and she lets out a quiet sigh. “Very little. Only the ash can save itself. It might fight the fungus and survive, but more often than not, it will succumb and fall,” she says.
Her words seep into the forest, and for a long moment, there is silence. Birdsong is absent, as are we. Powerless, we can do nothing but accept and move on.
Ahead, Granny re-joins the deer trail, and I follow suit. Clouds form overhead, swallowing the light that struggles to break through the gloom. Robins resume their songs, chirping from the shrubs around us. Deeper into the woods, the trail widens as it joins the footpath. Oaks, ash, and the remnants of elm rise above us, their roots swathed in moss and lichen, like soft slippers lining the forest floor.
I find it easy to become lost in the canvas of blue, green and brown, but as I do, a shadow flashes through the distant thicket. Perhaps one of those deer, startled by our wandering. Then something squeezes my forearm. Granny’s hand, weathered and freckled, grips me tight. Her eyes narrow, sharp as a red kite scanning for carrion. For years, she used to tell me stories of an escaped panther that stalked these woods. It preyed on deer but was wary of humans as if fearing a return to the zoo. When I was little, those tales kept me close. But watching now as she tenses her jaw, I wonder if she is falling prey to her fairytales.
The canopies above come alive with birds crying out warnings, their calls sharp and frantic. We freeze in the mud as the shrubs seem to hold their breath. A sudden snap of a branch ruptures the silence. My eyes scour the distance, searching for the shadow skulking in the distance. The only movement I sense is the shiver shooting down my spine.
With my eyes locked on the thicket, a tug behind a thick trunk pulls me off balance, its gnarled roots nearly sending me tumbling. Bewildered, I turn to question Granny’s bizarre behaviour, but she presses a cold finger to my lips, silencing me before I can speak. Her expression is grave. My attention switches to her hand as she leans around the trunk, pointing at a clearing in the coppice.
There, several young oaks stretch skyward, vying for shards of sunlight. Their competition is fierce, as little else has room to grow beneath their canopy. On this empty stage, a man whirls and weaves, flitting through the trees. He leaps over roots and ducks under branches with such urgency that his features blur. All I can make out is a man in a navy jacket and jogging bottoms, caught in a frantic, rhythmic dance.
I shift my weight forward, angling for a clearer view, only to find myself held in place. With a raised brow and a silent protest, I mouth, “What are you doing?” to Granny.
Her scowl is so fierce it makes the vice-like grip redundant. “Do not move,” her lips form without ushering a sound. Defeated, I sink back behind the trunk, baffled by her caution. Does she know this man? Has she seen him before? Or is she just wary of the unknown? Whatever it is, I’ll have to wait to find out.
From the safety of the trunk, we watch this private moment—Granny on one side, me on the other. The Dancing Man flutters with the grace of a falling leaf, rising and falling with the gentlest breeze. He seems weightless, moved by the forest’s unseen energy. Above, the canopy echoes our bewilderment as robins, chaffinches, and redstarts join in a bright, chaotic chorus. His steps are so gentle, that they vanish beneath the noise.
From the safety of our trunk, we watch as he flickers in and out of view. I twist my neck hoping to get a better view, but resist any sudden movement that might startle him. He is still in full flight when, without warning, he veers into the thicket. The murmur of the forest fades with him, leaving behind a quiet as we are all stunned at what we have just seen.
I turn to Granny, whose eyes still pierce the coppice. As she searches, the rustle of birds resumes, their tentative movements suggesting he is long gone. Several minutes pass before Granny releases her grip on my arm, leaving a red imprint and a faint tingling.
The tension shatters as I release a bewildered laugh. How bizarre! Who is this man, and why is he dancing alone in the woods? Did he even notice us? I wish I’d slipped from Granny’s grasp to find out… Will he return?
My excitement fades when I glance back and see Granny, still as a moss-covered stone. “If we come across that man again, we should leave him be,” she says, her tone firm.
Confused and trying to piece this puzzle together, I ask why.
“I’ve walked these woods for more than forty years, and seen all manner of dog walkers, deer hunters and bird twitchers, but not once have I seen a dancing man,” she says.
“Something doesn’t sit right with me. How many other places can you name that are better suited to dancing? His kitchen, his garden or his studio, just to name a few. Yet he chooses to dance in the middle of a public woodland on a cold morning,”
“I’ve read enough stories in the newspaper of nutters who have a similar screw loose. Let’s not make the mistake of finding out that he’s one of them,” she affirms.
I wilt at her declaration. In the past, I’ve learned that when she has the bit between her teeth, there’s little use in trying to reason with her. Deep down, a dwindling fire hopes he returns. He danced with beauty and grace; at the very least, I wish I could tell him that.
[5]
The twinkling stardust of The Dancing Man has sprinkled Spring with excitement. In just a few weeks, the forest floor blooms with patches of purple and white as bluebells and stitchwort weave through the soil. The faint, sweet scent of cherry blossom lingers in every breath. Shrivelled brown blotches retreat as green leaves, shoots, and stems emerge.
But he is still absent. Granny refuses to walk that path anymore, so now we go clockwise instead. I like to believe he has found a quieter corner of the woods, away from our curious eyes. I can’t help but feel he saw us, and since then, has taken his pirouettes elsewhere. Whatever the case, he remains a mystery.
Not a day goes by when I don’t imagine more about his life. Is he a ballet dancer, practising here in secret? Or perhaps he always wanted to dance, but his parents refused, so he took to the woods to practise alone. These thoughts appear as vivid dreams at night and linger when I wake. Every day, I enter the woods with hope and leave with disappointment.
Our days have settled into a familiar rhythm: wake at dawn, eat breakfast, walk to the woods, and then return to garden, bake, cook, clean; whatever is on the to-do list. I miss the days when a ghost in a navy jacket and joggers broke that routine. This afternoon, I stand at the sink, washing mixing bowls. The scent of roasting almonds fills the air as almond tarts bake in the oven. On the counter rests the next batch, filled with homemade strawberry jam and topped with almond paste. I wonder if The Dancing Man likes almonds.
I turn the radio down as Take That’s latest song starts playing, then toss the question on my lips out into the quiet, “So what do you think happened to that man who was dancing in the big wood?”
The clink of jars from the pantry pauses. “So, you still haven’t forgotten him,” Granny replies, her voice flat.
I already regret asking. How could I not? He’s a mystery—where could he have gone? Why hasn’t he returned? The sink gurgles as I pull the plug, and chew over how I respond. “Of course not,” I say before pausing to consider my next words, “there is a reason why he was there, and I hate to think we will never know what it was.”
Leaning against the doorframe, Granny emerges, her eyebrows raised a touch and her mouth set in a firm line. “A wise person once said, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Just because you imagine him with a romantic backstory, full of determination and defiance, doesn’t mean that’s the truth. He could just as easily be guilty of delusion and betrayal. When you let your imagination run wild, it’s easy to lose touch with reality.” Her voice carries a weight of finality.
By now, I’m back at the sink, drying bowls with a towel in hand. The bitter taste of disappointment lingers on my tongue. I can’t believe she doesn’t want to solve this mystery. A strange man has appeared near her garden, and she would rather bury her head in the flowerbed than find out. I’m struggling for words. Instead, I shrug, directing all my frustration into the bowl in my hands, scrubbing away every last bubble with a little too much force.
The weight of the bowl soon lifts as Granny steps in beside me. I look up, and her gaze softens, a faint grin tugging at her lips. “I say this because I care about you, dear. Be careful not to get too carried away. Reality never plays out how we expect,” she says, her tone gentle.
Her concerns, however, are not enough to dampen my dreams. For days, he returns as I sleep, appearing on different stages, and performing different dances. Sometimes he is alone; other times, he dances with others. I do not share Granny’s distrust.
[6]
Summer days fall into a pattern of steady downpours and intense sunshine. Today is more of the latter. The set-aside waivers under the heat. Hedgerows that once were abandoned, now bustle with red admirals, meadow browns and speckled woods. They flee as I chase them, and try to catch a glimpse of the patterns on their wings. Wrens whistle at me as I do so as if asking me to stop. On the telephone wires in the distance, yellowhammers cry out a rhythmic beat as they watch this bizarre display.
Heeding the wren’s calls to stop dawdling, I pull on my beach hat, hang a wicker basket on my shoulder and set off again. Before I lost my way chasing butterflies, I set out to gather blackberries. Rainy days are on their way, so I’m picking them now before their sweetness washes away.
Foraging for berries is very calming if you’ve never tried it. For every blackberry landing in my basket, another finds its way into my mouth. Most burst with a subtle sweetness, coating my tongue. A few have a bitter tang, making me wince. It’s better to pick these now before they end up in tonight’s crumble. The ripest berries hide deep within the hedge, so far that even the blackbirds, badgers, robins, and thrushes can’t reach them. Getting to them, however, isn’t easy; it means sneaking past thorny branches that prick my skin. Before long, my hands and arms are stained with a deep red mix of juice and blood.
I comb my way along the row. Blackberries thrive when wet days are followed by bursts of sunshine, so there’s an abundance of tiny parcels of sweetness today. I follow the trail to the entrance of the big wood, where the soil is richer and the pickings even better. My basket is half full by now, but I’m estimating just how many I need for a crumble and some jam, all while filling my belly as I go.
Within, I have an audience. A nuthatch and several tits cock their heads, curious about this stranger in a wide-brimmed hat and blue dungarees. As the canopy softens the sunlight, I throw back my hat, revealing a familiar face. They must not have been impressed as their chatter fades and they return to foraging.
When your nose is pressed into the thicket, it’s easy to lose yourself. To the birds above, I must look like a Neanderthal, stumbling from bush to bush in a semi-crouched pose. The occasional dog walker greets me as they pass, but I have no time for conversation. I know they nibble at the brambles closest to the path, so I push deeper into the thicket where the juiciest berries hide.
I’ll share my secret with you. The best pickings are in a grove of hazel trees deep in the heart of the woods. Brambles love it. The trees are short and stout, their canopy thin, letting in both water and light. Their size makes them awkward for dog walkers to move under, but not for me.
Crouching down, my back stiffening a little as I do so, I spot hundreds of black beads glistening within the tangle. Even the foxes haven’t raided this bush yet. I fill my basket with glee, humming Nizlopi’s JCB Song as I go. A few berries are so fragile they squish between my fingers, releasing a sweetness into the air.
My loot is now so high it will soon reach the brim of my basket. Without warning, a blaze of yellow catches my eye. What was that? Runners don’t come through here, and there’s no breeze to move the light like that. I stand, my knees groaning in protest. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve eaten a rogue berry.
But the second yellow flash is unmistakable. He has returned. This time, he radiates with a brilliance like the sun itself. The Dancing Man glides through the coppice, flickering like an ember thrown from the fire. A cluster of oaks keeps me out of sight, so I perch on my bum, my sore legs outstretched, and watch the show unfold.
This time, he is in full view, with no hood to obscure him. His hair is very dark and cropped short. His skin looks pale, while his deep, dark eyes sink into his skull. He tiptoes through the bracken in open-toed sandals and black shorts. The yellow windbreaker he wears reminds me of a goldcrest, his chest puffing as it fills with air while he spreads his wings.
I won’t pretend to know anything about dancing, but I’m sure this is a different dance. He spends more time rooted to the spot, stomping the floor, throwing his arms like a whirlwind, and clapping to a beat that mirrors the yellowhammer from earlier. The intensity is mesmerising. His movements enchant me, and any thought of probing him with my questions drifts into the thicket at my back.
The tempo rises as light drains from the forest. I check my watch—hours have passed since I left with an empty basket. Beads of sweat glisten on his brow. By now, maggots are wriggling into my loot. I must leave before Granny thinks the panther has got me. How long can one person dance, anyway?
I prepare to make my escape, leaving The Dancing Man as his face reddens like a tomato, his claps scattering the birds. After pulling myself to my feet, I need both hands to steady my trove. My eyes scout the floor for twigs, as I tiptoe away to the right. I am close to being covered by hazel when I notice the silence. Has he finished?
Pivoting on my left foot, my eyes lock with his. Now I am rumbled. His pupils seem to swallow his eyes, sweat running down his brow. I stare back like a deer who has spotted a hunter armed with a shotgun. Time passes, I don’t know how long. Stuck in the mud, only now do I see the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the hair receding from his face. Has he lost weight since last time?
I stand frozen, torn between running and seeing where this leads. It is not fear I feel. Granny’s words of warning echo in my head, dampening the smile I want to share. Your move, stranger.
He chooses to break our stalemate and swivels back to where he paused, refusing to acknowledge my existence. I don’t think he missed a beat. I concede that I am the intruder here and retreat as his foot thumps against the soil once more. My hair stands on end, and my heart pounds in my ears.
[7]
With a satisfying thud, my haul lands on the counter. The dusk sky washes the kitchen in deep crimson, blending with the berry juices and blood splattered across my hands and arms.
I head straight to the tap, scrubbing at the stains on my hands. Footsteps echo down the hallway before Granny appears, her voice sharp with humour. “Blimey, did you plan on leaving any berries for anyone else?” she quips.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel, flashing her a grin. “Maybe I got a little carried away,” I admit.
“A little? You were gone so long, I thought you’d dozed off under Old Walnut,” she fires back, hands perched on her hips.
I hesitate, weighing whether to tell her the truth. The last time we spoke of The Dancing Man, she made her opinion quite clear. If I tell her now, she’ll only fret. Worse, she might ban me from the woods entirely—and I don’t want to risk my best foraging spot.
I must have stewed on the thought too long. When I look up, she tilts her head, then leans forward, her brown eyes narrowing as if trying to pluck the words lingering on the tip of my tongue. I can’t help but groan as I’ve been rumbled for the second time today.
My gaze strays to the basket, and the words spill out. “The Dancing Man was there today, up in the big wood.” I pause, the silence lingering. When I dare to look up, her face is unreadable, blank as a cloudy sky. Powerless to stop, I recount everything: the twists, the turns, the tempo. She watches me with pursed lips, nodding on occasion but giving nothing away. My story gushes out, like blackberry juice squeezed from overripe fruit. When I finish, Granny flicks the switch, as by now, light has deserted the kitchen.
I search her eyes, trying to find a response. The only movement comes from the steady rise and fall of her chest as she takes a deep breath. “Well,” she says at last, “that’s quite an afternoon you’ve had up there. I’d have preferred it if you’d just taken a nap,” she adds with a smirk.
“I’m a little surprised you kept your distance. Why didn’t you ask him what he was doing as you said you wanted to?” she asks, her voice edged with curiosity.
I hesitate, my thoughts swirling like tea leaves in a cup. “I felt like I was intruding on something private. When he caught me watching, I was waiting for a sign to come closer, or to speak. But he didn’t flinch. It was as if I were a ghost, and he was staring right through me. When he turned back to his dance, it felt like rejection, so I left him in peace.” My voice falters, and I stare at the floor. “But deep down, I wish he had spoken to me—invited me into his world.”
Granny raises her head, her inhale sharp. “So why not speak to him?” she asks, her tone softening.
I expected a scolding, so this line of questioning has caught me off balance. I hum contemplation, reluctant to share that her distrust kept me quiet. Instead, I pluck another answer. “Because if I waited much longer, the maggots would start munching through my blackberries.” I shrug, picking up the basket and moving toward the sink.
Turning the tap releases a squeak that cuts through the quiet, water gushing in its wake. I still expect her to follow with a lecture. Perhaps she’ll scold me about the dangers of wandering the woods alone. Or maybe, she’ll march up there right now to confront him. But instead, stillness holds a while longer.
I glance over my shoulder. Granny’s hand rests on the counter, while her thumb and index finger trace the outline of her jaw. Her eyes wander out the window, swallowed by the dark red sea of the setting sun, turning black as night falls. I leave her to her thoughts and return to the peace of washing blackberries. Something troubles her, but I don’t dare to find out.
Only by the time I’m spreading a layer of berries into a glass dish does she drift back to the kitchen. “Thank you for sharing what happened up there today. I wish I’d have been there to see him. His behaviour sounds even more unusual than I expected. I hope there won’t be any maggots in the crumble,” she says, her smile wry.
With that abrupt comment, she scribbles something onto a scrap of paper and heads to the hallway. Her behaviour is as strange as his. I can’t shake one question as I smooth my crumble’s topping—what was she so lost in thought about?
[8]
Since turning the final fruits of Summer into jams, pickles and pastes, the rains have refused to relent. Warm days have washed away, leaving a quagmire of mud and sludge in their wake. My wellington’s squelch as they leave a deep imprint in the earth, each step filling with water. Many birds have long since retreated south. But I remain – and the damp Autumn creates fertile ground for mushroom hunting.
The bushes rustle as Granny appears, her wax jacket soaked through. She holds a young beech sapling to the side and waves me over. “Feeling lucky this year?” she asks.
“Well, considering I found two shaggy parasols and a solitary penny bun across all of last Autumn, I only need a little luck to do better this year,” I say, smirking.
“As you’re such an expert, remind me where to find them?”
She lifts her hood from covering her brow and warms the cool air with a hearty chuckle. “Of course. Rule number one: you’re going to need these,” she says, pointing to my eyes and nose.
“Mushrooms are finicky blighters. They demand cool, damp conditions to bloom. The weather’s never the same from year to year, so where they bloom shifts all the time. That means this won’t be as easy as finding blackberries.”
“They’re the flowers of fungi that live under the soil. You won’t see the fungi itself, but that’s why all these leaves vanish by Spring,” she says, pointing at the litter of yellow, orange, and brown leaves covering the floor.
“Decaying plants produce the earthy smell you are familiar with. Spotting where it is pungent is where your nose comes in handy. Don’t just rely on your sight; open all your senses,”
“Lastly, different fungi thrive on different materials. Some prefer leaves, others wood, and some even feed on certain animals. Use your sight and smell to find old logs, piles of leaves, and different trees. One year, a patch might be full of mushrooms; the next, barren. So, be patient and move with care—mushrooms are often not where you expect them to be,” she concludes.
With my task clear, I widen my nostrils, focus my eyes on the forest floor, and dive into the thicket. Branches claw at my mackintosh as if trying to hold me back from a hidden bounty. But the thought of porcini pasta stirs a gnawing hunger, so I press on, my head bowed.
I flip logs and kick at leaves without luck. I’m not the only one on the hunt it seems. There are remnants of fluffy white stems; their caps long gone, swallowed by deer, mice, or pheasants. The ground is murky and dark, but there’s enough light now that the canopy has cleared, with only a few straggling orange leaves clinging on for dear life. By now, I had expected to see white veins bursting from the roots of trees. Instead, my hands are damp and coated in dirt, while my basket remains empty.
With Granny’s advice rattling in my head, I switch to following the earthy scent, hoping for a hint of nut to lead me to my prize. But neither my eyes nor nose are much use. Either I’m not cut out for this, or the locals have already claimed the best pickings. I’ve become so busy rummaging that I’ve lost track of Granny. Maybe she’s having better luck?
I change direction and head toward the fading light beneath the oak trees. The last rays of sunshine break through the thick cloud cover. I once heard that some mushrooms prefer the sun, so, as my frustration builds, I decide this will be my final attempt.
The smell of festering leaves becomes thicker as I move farther from the path. Just as my hopes begin to rise, I freeze. Crouched, blending into the trees, is a figure. The clouds above close in once more, and I squint, struggling to make out the outline. A few careful steps closer, and I spot the fringe of Granny’s purple scarf peeking out from under her hood. She’d make a convincing tree in this year’s pantomime, I think, half amused, half relieved.
I quicken my steps, careful not to startle her. As I do, she raises a flat palm and lowers it twice, as if patting my head. My final steps toward her are gentle and cause just a crackle in the silence.
She stands on the edge of a clearing, surrounded by adolescent oaks, their limbs curved to protect something that lies still. It’s no deer or fox, but The Dancing Man. As I approach, I slip my fingers into hers, but she doesn’t break her gaze from the sombre figure sitting cross-legged. I glance up at Granny, who presses a finger to her lips, eyes still fixed on him. We crouch, waiting in the quiet. For what, I wonder?
A gloom settles over the clearing, thickening the air. The hoods of our coats prickle as the first droplets fall, warm at first, then cold. I tilt my head upwards, watching as the clouds swell and darken. As if taking the rain as a cue, he prepares to begin.
From sitting to standing, he rises in one smooth motion, his body flowing like water. His dark eyes lock onto the earth as his arms stretch upward, slow and deliberate, like tree branches swaying in the breeze. A pause. His head lifts, and he draws in a deep, composed breath. Then, with a sudden flourish, his right arm sweeps up, while his left drops. Both move fluidly, tracing the air like a painter layering brushstrokes on canvas. His neck stiffens, blinking left and right, sharp and focused, like a sparrowhawk hunting in the sky.
As the rain becomes heavy, his tempo quickens. He whirls like a sycamore key caught in the wind, spinning in the air. One moment he is still, his arms sharp at his sides. The next, he is a blur, returning to the centre of the clearing in a whirl of motion. The intensity builds with each movement. All else fades into the background as this elusive figure takes the spotlight. As he spins on the ball of his foot, water arcs from the ground, cleaving through the endless rain.
He throws back his hood, revealing a face that withers with each passing season. Or maybe it’s just the dimming light. He draws in deep breaths now as his movement wanes. His jaw clenches, twisting his features into an expression of deep anguish, the once-composed face now haggard and drawn.
The rain hammers down with fury, threatening to swallow him whole. My focus falters for a moment as a sniffle reaches my ears from the right. I think Granny is struggling with the cold, but when I tilt my head, I wonder if the wetness on her cheeks isn’t just rain.
I glance back, and the dance of the man wilts before my eyes. He stands motionless, his arms and hips moving with the slowness of ice creeping across still water. At last, they fall slack by his sides. He stares into the sky as water drenches him. The clearing reverberates like an amphitheatre, the sound of countless droplets beating his dance into submission.
Without warning, a clap cracks through the air. Another follows. Bewildered, I turn to my right and find Granny, her hands raised in applause, and her lips trembling. My confusion lingers for a moment, but then a rush of joy wells up inside me, as though the very air had changed. How could I not celebrate such a performance? My hands join hers, beating as one, and a cheer bursts from me.
As I rise to my feet, I catch a glimpse of Granny, her head lowered to the ground as though she’s standing at a funeral. Her face is sombre, her shoulders tense. I wonder how our reaction is so different after seeing the same moment. How can one person be filled with joy while another seems to crumple with sorrow?
In the clearing, The Dancing Man stares into the murky grey sky, accepting the rain and our applause with an air of reluctant grace. Then, he puffs out his chest and turns toward us. His lips press tight, but they can’t conceal the tears streaming down his gaunt face, brushed pink with exhaustion. A smile flickers for a moment on his lips, only to be smothered by a deep bow, his body bending like a tree toppling in the wind. With a groan, he straightens and nods at us, acknowledging our applause. Then he stares ahead, as if lost in some faraway place, savouring every last moment.
Without a glimmer in his expression, he turns on his heel and exits the stage. Our applause ripples like a storm as he vanishes into the thicket once again. A hand slips under my armpit, and without warning, Granny pulls me into her. I feel her chest against mine, her heart beating as fast as if she were the one dancing. I let my arms go slack, ready to pull away, but her fingertips press into my back, squeezing me tight. For a long moment, we stand, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“It’s time to go home,” she says, her voice soft, a sniffle escaping as a solemn smile tugs at the corners of her lips.