An extract from "Out in the Woods"
by Rosalind Brady
by Rosalind Brady
I was brought up in contradicting landscapes, inner cities and English gardens and wildernesses, each with their own natures. The smell of old apricots rotting on the branch in the deserted orchard farm in the outback; wild cats and Coca-Cola crates in the alley back of the milk bar; tarantulas hanging on my bedroom wall and then later, Sussex; hours spent in the woods near our a small village estate; grey Weald clay on my boots and fingers, smell of the oaks, the downy fields. With Richard Mabey's "Food for Free" tucked in our rucksack, my mother and I would make off across the landscape gathering sorrel, fat hen, leaves and flowers. Later, my first oak leaf fag rolled up in brown paper. 5 years on, Brixton, in London, wild parties, home at dawn-out with the foxes.
I started writing when I was very young, immediately affected by beauty, by rain and wind, as children are. School, ambition, restlessness and disquiet wrenched me from the countryside-it has been more than fifteen years, but I have made it back.
The Greeks call it Artemis: the feeling of sanctity in that place you love, deep in the woods. Find a place where its spirit and yours are in tune, and you will be abundantly creative. You will have reached your homeland...
