Nature

The reductive friction of fear

By Ray Wilson After leaving the A303, our road to the sun is narrower and calmer, more indicative of earlier times—more suited to a horse and cart rather than a motorised vehicle. Our motorcycle combination purrs along the lanes, weaving through the picturesque countryside as we soak in the peaceful surroundings. We are staying in

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Walking in the woods one day

By Ray Wilson “I think I’ve got chemtrail sniffles,” my missus tells me. “You had better start…” I begin. “On the Suramin, every hour on the hour, I know I started on it,” she interjects. I leave the missus to recuperate. It’s dank; a cloying greyness hangs over the forest. My hound sniffs at the

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Monkey Business

By Ray Wilson It is quiet on the Ashdown forest path—sandstone rocks jut out at awkward angles. The rainfall of millennia has softened the edges of the rocks, creating a smooth and almost ethereal atmosphere as the mist settles over the ancient trail. A quietude: I instinctively reach out and place my hand on the

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The White Stag

By Ray Wilson It is proper rain. lashing down in torrents, piecing stair rods—we feel the impact through our motorcycle gear as it permeates the protective fabric. We are in the heart of the ancient Ashdown forest, where at least the harsh rain is tempered through the thick canopy of trees. “Pull over,” my missus

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The Unpluggers

By Ray Wilson Fog permeates the substance of the forest; rivulets run down the gnarled trunks and drip from the inter-tangled canopy of branches. The Bluebell railway line runs through the Ashdown forest. Somewhere far ahead, a steam train blows its whistle, its piercing vibrancy muted by the smothering blanket of fog. I urge my

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