Off on an adventure, as usual in the Summer, across the meadow we trekked with the daisies and dandelions brightening the scene, over the stile and into the forbidden forest. Shady and quiet but full of bramble and unseen creatures rustling in the undergrowth, in the Autumn the most amazing blackberries could be found, today was special, today we were going to the swing.
Battling through the bushes, twigs with wicked, ripping thorns attached waiting to tear into the unwary. Stumbling over aged roots a canopy of green above us shadows cast by the sun dancing through seemingly spotlighting our path. The occasional squawk of a disgruntled bird, an oomph as someone tripped followed by tinkling laughter until stunned silence, we were there, tumbling out into a sun filled valley, the ground sweeping away beneath us in a steep and threatening curve, the carpet of nettles beneath us nodded in the breeze, knowingly waiting for their next victim. In front of us was the ancient fabled rope, made famous by older siblings- the secret passed on through Chinese Whispers. It was blue and knotted, scuff marks from ages surrounding the magnificent spreading oak towering above, a monolith to our bravery. Initials carved into the rough bark of those who had dared and survived and the rope that had become part of the branch overhead and childhood legend.
To feel the wind, exhilaration and wonder a swing could bring, who would dare go first?
