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t all started with a small stuffed toy sitting on a tree branch, with a note attached saying: “Please take me home, wash me and love me.”
I spotted several more as I walked through the woods near my home in Hertfordshire, heightening the sense of unreality that came with the first lockdown last March. In those early days, the woods were nearly empty, only a handful of walkers and their dogs passing each other – at a safe distance – with a feeling of camaraderie, of relief that some of us were allowed out for what became an utterly necessary hour of exercise. The thoughtful soul who planted the stuffed toys in an impromptu treasure hunt might not have known how much pleasure this gesture gave the grown-ups as well as the children.
In this ancient woodland of oak, birch, hazel, hornbeam and ash, wood anemones were already turning the ground a creamy shade of white. In only a few weeks, bluebells would transform the forest floor into a sea of purplish blue. The weather gods were kind to us that spring, bringing us warmth and seemingly endless blue skies. Our daily outings took us further and further afield, with the woods as the starting point, as our hour-long walks turned into three- or four-hour hikes. Like most people, we discovered how much more there was to our own patch than we had realised. New fields, footpaths and forests were stumbled upon, more footbridges and tunnels traversed, new brooks found to sit beside and have a picnic.
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