The three of us visited the site he had chosen for the carving to stand. We went early on a Sunday morning, just as dawn was breaking, and grabbed Jon from the end of his lane on the way. Dad wanted to see what the site would look like first thing and he needed to get off to a local market to try and sell some toys later. The valley was still lying in thick mist when we set off but we were above it all on top of the fell, looking down onto the white valley. Only the two cement chimneys, a church spire and the tops of the tallest trees popped out through the top and Duerdale looked like an ancient town given up to the sea.
I knew there was a car park at the town side of the forest and I thought we were headed there. It was sign-posted from the town centre and had public toilets and a big board mapped with different walks. It seemed the obvious place to start but Dad drove straight past and kept going. We drove for a few miles and I was struck by how vast the forest was. The road got narrower and the trees loomed over us. We rose and fell on sharp, steep, little climbs and as the road carried us on my sleepy mind wandered and I began thinking about who had built these roads and when. All those men must be dead now, surely? Had they all lived locally or did teams of road builders travel around the country, laying their route out in front of them and never stopping? Who decided where you built the roads and who paid their wages? These half-thoughts skimmed the surface of my brain as the car carried us on, ducking and twisting beneath the trees. We didn’t see another car or any walkers or anyone. We were alone, the only people awake and travelling through this ancient place. I wondered about the ages of the trees and realised that they would, more than likely, still be stood in the same place, under the same patch of sky long after me, Dad and Jon were dead.
Eventually Dad pulled over. We were at the back of the forest and miles away from town and miles away from the public entrance to the forest. We all climbed out and shook life back into our car-tired legs. We were stood in front of a rusty green gate. There was no wall or fence on either side, just two crumbling concrete gateposts holding it in place. It looked ridiculous, sat by itself on the edge of a forest in the middle of nowhere. Dad said it looked like an album cover from years ago. He asked if we were ready and we both nodded and followed him through the falling-down gateposts and into the forest.
The trees swallowed the light and we stood still, adjusting to the darkness. There was an absolute silence, a heavy calm and a feeling that if you had to speak you should speak in a whisper. The floor was carpeted with brown pine needles and green moss and was springy under foot and the air smelt of dry tree and cold mornings. After a few seconds considering, Dad moved slowly forward, squinting at his sketched map and looking up to check he was moving in the right direction. There didn’t appear to be any track he was following as he weaved through the trees and it was uneven ground and the tree roots snaked across the forest floor and me and Jon kept our eyes on the ground. It was tough going. It felt like the roots were trying to grab us and pull us to the floor. Dad was more used to it and he had to stop and wait for us to catch up every few minutes.
Eventually I got surer on my feet and looked up to see what was overhead. It was a trick I learned from my mum. She said that every now and again, walking your usual route through town or to school, you should look up as you travelled instead of straight ahead, that you would see things you hadn’t seen before. And she was right. The first time I walked through our old town and lifted my head up I saw things I’d never noticed in a town I’d lived in all my life. In the forest the trees stretched high and higher into the sky, disappearing out of sight and there was only the odd glimpse of sky poking through the canopy. It felt like we were indoors; it reminded me of the church on the day of my mum’s funeral: ancient and powerful.
It took Jon a bit longer to get steady on his feet but eventually he settled into some kind of rhythm and started telling us about trees and their history. How, from the story of Adam and Eve up to today, trees were held in special regard because they start underneath the ground, push up into this world and appear to be stretching up towards heaven. He said that for some groups of people they were a symbol of the next life in this world. I told him I didn’t believe in heaven and hell and the next life and we fell silent again and carried on, pushing through the trees.
We stirred the forest into life. There were birds singing a warning to each other: look out for the three clumsy creatures, sliding and crashing across the forest floor. I was sure I heard sounds of bigger animals amongst the trees but whenever I looked in the direction of the rustle there was nothing there, just a feeling that the second before I turned my head there had been.
I was worried about Jon. His coughing had got worse over the last few weeks and I could see he was starting to struggle. There were beads of sweat popping on his forehead but when I gave him my hand to help him up a steep climb his grip was cold and clammy. I didn’t draw Dad’s attention to it. He’d been a bit unsure about letting us come and I had to nag him. Thankfully he stopped for a break and leant against a tree and passed a bottle of water around. Jon sat down, grateful for the rest. I took a gulp of the water and asked, ‘How are you going to get the carving all the way out here?’ Dad laughed. ‘Determination.’ I passed the bottle to Jon who took a big swig. Dad told us, ‘Not much further now and I have my own story about trees anyway.’ He took a glance at his map, folded it back up and pushed forward.