I have a secret place. A place I do not name.
It is my place.
I visit it maybe once or twice a year, once in summer, when I pass through on my way else where and use the time to experience this secret place in a different way. Summer is a time for sitting still at some spot within the places boundary and looking. Seeing how the image has changed from that of winter and building up scenes in my mind of what went before in that place. It is a fine place for a summer camp, no tent, just a sleeping bag laid on bracken and soft grass, a brew and the noises and smells of the night.
In winter it is time to explore. Nature retreats and the season strips away the green cloak and reveals the skeleton of this place. The hand of man is evident all around and yet there are secrets here too. Stones placed in a peculiar way, the odd piece of metal, a quarried face. Sledways, one of my favourite imprints in the land are visible in winter, especially in snow and I spend hours tracing their courses and imagining what activities were carried out. From different viewpoints you get a different image, a patchwork of views which when stitched together form a scene from the past.