h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I was walking in the woods near our house. This is private property (it’s part of an old landed estate: the demesne, as we call it in Ireland), but is open to the public. Many parts are full of walkers (and boy racers and joy-riders), especially at the weekends. But, deeper in the woods, there are tracks where no one ever goes. And, though I know the place well and often stray from the roads and the main paths, it is still possible for me to get lost in there.

A few months ago I was with my mother in another part of the woods, across the road from the place where most people would go. It’s even more private in there. There are some large tracks – easily big enough to get a tractor or jeep down – which are almost never walked. The farmer must pass through that way occasionally, en route to some of the more distant of his somewhat scattered field. Recently there has been some work done there. A fence has been erected to keep out the deer (in an effort to protect the young oak trees: this is one of Ireland’s oldest oak forests), clearings have been planted, and some trees have been felled. So it’s not as quiet as it used to be. Still though, I’ve never met other people in there who were just walking, like me. A couple of hunters, once, a good while ago. They might possibly have been paid to cull the deer. I don’t know.

I don’t know this section of the woods as well. I’m in there often enough, but I have a set route on large paths, from which I rarely deviate. I enter in one place and come out in another. And that’s pretty much it. A clockwise semi-circle. Where the path heads over a large hill I have sometimes struck off to the right, but I’ve usually turned back again. Once or twice I kept going and got through to another track leading to the old tumbledown boathouse on the lake and past that to the main road that cuts the woods in two. The lake is boggy, and, in many parts, has no clearly defined edge. It was in the further margins of this lake that I nearly met my end earlier today. I’m getting out of sync here, am I not?

A few months ago I was with my mother in this part of the woods and we struck off to the right from the hill, keeping, as far as possible, to the high ground. It’s a long hill, and, though it’s too broad to be called a causeway, is quite likely artificial. I remember mentioning that, to the casual observer, there was absolutely nothing visible to the eye to date the scene at any time in the last millennium or so. It’s a mature forest of widely spaced broadleaf. You can see quite a distance through the trees most of the time. An expert, looking at the landscape, would probably see signs of ‘improvements’ in the landscaping. There are certainly drains. One of the few deviations from my route through the woodland is to leave the path where it follows what certainly is an artificial causeway. I drop off it to the left, stroll through some very spaced trees, close enough to discourage undergrowth, but no closer, and reach a small drain on the far side of which is forestry plantation. I walk along this, the boundary between woodland and forestry for a while and suddenly the drain becomes vastly deeper -- about ten to fifteen feet, I’d judge – and vastly older. There are mature trees growing on its edges, with gnarled roots showing through. The forestry stops, and there are fields to the left. Once, walking along this drain with my mother, I summarised for my mother the tale of Shardik, in Richard Adam’s novel of that name. It was one of the few books she had given up on reading.

This time, when we came to the end of the hill, we came to another drain, equally old, but not nearly as deep. It ran, so far as we could judge, roughly parallel with the other drain and with the section of the main path which is atop a causeway. We decided to follow it to see where it came out. After much walking, which should have brought us, we were thinking, nearly to the other end of the woods, we came out at the base of the hill. Yes, we were back almost exactly where we’d started, at the home end of the woods. We’ve never worked out how we managed it.

So, today, alone, I decided to trace our route backward. I started at the small bridge over the stream at the path just below the hill. And I tried to follow the drain which, at that point, is near the stream. But it soon petered out to nothingness. Casting about in the woods for another drain – for anything to follow – I came on the stream, still close to the drain and running in roughly the same direction. It wasn’t much of a stream. More a bog: but it was wet soil, not marsh. I followed it. Soon, it became a proper stream (well, it wasn’t flowing fast, but there was water there and it was flowing), and it was clear that I was going upstream. What happens to it lower down I do not know. I wasn’t closeby the stream at all points. There were thornbushes (have you ever fought with a whitethorn and come off the winner?), long grasses, and other impediments. There were also fields, in places I’d never known there were fields before. Two or three large clearings of grass – large enough to graze a herd of cattle in – in the middle of the woods. All uncultivated. All on my left hand.

At one point there was a plank bridge fixed over the stream. Odd. The middle of nowhere, in an all-but trackless wood, with the trees slightly open so that there was undergrowth, and suddenly a plank bridge. It wasn’t a kids’ set-up, either. It was firmly fixed. I crossed it, and climbed a small hill on the right (well, my left as I walked upstream), but saw nothing I recognised. The causeway along which the path I know runs must have been somewhere ahead of me as I stood on that hill looking away from the stream, but, though I looked, I couldn’t see it. There were plenty of small tracks around, but nothing to show that they’d been made by man. I left the hill and returned to my stream. Sluggish, that stream was. Nothing cheerful about it, but I’d made up my mind to follow it and follow it I would. And that resolution could have been the end of me.

Not long thereafter the ground opened up to my left again. The stream was narrower here, with long grasses on both sides. Walking on the right bank, I left the stream to skirt around a tree, then crossed again. Now on both sides (as far as I could see) there were tall reeds. I should have guessed what was going to happen, but the ground was firm underfoot. These weren’t bulrushes – they were over my head, with dry stems that could crack, and feathery tops. Good thatching material, actually. And someone had walked that way before me. Was it the man we’d seen mapping that time, checking drainage patterns for the new road which was to cut across a small corner of the woodland? Perhaps. He’d set off along this stream. But that had been a few months ago. Perhaps he’d been back to recheck something. The stream was to my left. I could see it as a gap in the density of the reeds which surrounded me in all directions. The path turned left, following the stream, which also jinked at a sudden angle, and suddenly both disappeared. I took a few steps. The reeds were behind me. Here was open land, with low-lying vegetation, some tufts of the wiry reeds – those thin dark green ones with the little brown tuft just below the tip, which usually symbolise wet ground. And the ground was indeed a bit soggy. I took another step and was in up to the hip. And out again. It wasn’t bog. I was standing on the bog. That had been water. My stream hadn’t disappeared. It was flowing through the bog, with its surface at the same level, with floating vegetation concealing its existence. And it was bottomless. Scary, but at least I’d been able to pull my leg out again effortlessly. And my other foot, though it was on soggy ground very near to that all but invisible stream, hadn’t sunk at all.

Alright, I’d been careless. And I’d underestimated the danger and the difficulty of this bog. By the time I had realised what I was dealing with, I didn’t want to go back the way I’d come. It was too far, and would require hitting the high reeds at exactly the right spot. Could I do it? What would happen if I didn’t? The actual lake itself is up there somewhere. All I could see in that direction was high reeds, with a thin line of trees beyond them and the main road beyond that. That bog was big. And I’ve never walked on ground like it. I’m well used to cut and drained bogs, where the peat is cut for fuel and laid out to dry. And I’m used to mountain bogs, where you can, if you’re used to it, judge the ground and pick a way across. The small reeds, though they signal boggy ground, are themselves fairly firm, and you can usually rely on a clump of them to take your weight. Higher in the mountains they don’t grow, but the worse penalty you’re likely to suffer is a wet foot. But here, in this vast bog, the whole clump would sink if you put weight on it. And, I thought, if the surface breaks I’m going to go down into this bog and never be seen again. The surface wasn’t breaking. When I put my foot down, the ground underneath would dip by a couple of inches, and the whole surface of the bog would pucker.

I phoned my father and told him where I was. Perhaps that was a bad move. I presented it as: I’ve been longer on this stroll than I said I would be, so I’m ringing to say that I’m turning back now, and by the way, I’m in the middle of a nasty bog on the far side of the lake. But still, it worried him. I wouldn’t usually phone unless something had gone wrong. By that time I’d picked out a route. There was a tongue of woodland reaching toward me, with good broadleaf trees that must be growing on dry ground. It wasn’t a long walk, so I headed for it. I fell in the stream once more on my way, with similarly undramatic results. Odd that the bog so near this water can be no more unstable than the bog in other places.

There seemed to be some kind of path. Certainly the bog was firmer than it had been. But I couldn’t reach the woods. There was a very clear dividing line between bog and woods, with the woodland about half a foot higher. But the bog just this side of the line was clearly horrible. Probably no more sodden than the rest of it, but with no vegetation to tie it together. I wasn’t walking on that. It simply would not have held me.

There was, though, a small patch of the high, dry-stemmed reeds forming an island in the bog. I stood there and considered my options. Where I was, I was fine. The ground below me was holding firm. Behind me and to both sides was bog, where I could walk but would have to keep moving, and where there might be any number of traps including that invisible stream. Ahead was the dry woodland, but bordering it was a strip to wide for me to jump. I did, for a brief spell, consider jumping as far as I could, which would sink me probably to half way up my torso, but which would leave me within reach of a clump of grass which I could use to drag myself out again. Perhaps. If it was strong enough to hold my weight. If I didn’t sink entirely.

I was, if you like, in a bay of the bog, with another peninsula of woodland sticking out behind me. I thought about that for a while, but I didn’t like the look of it. They were scrubbier trees, and probably were not clearly differentiated from the bog. And besides, the stream ran through that peninsula. And I was not feeling very well disposed toward that stream.

And then I saw it. A fallen tree, a little to my left, stretching over the black section into the vegetated area, the area I could walk on. My salvation. I was just setting off when daddy phoned me. He’d been trying to get through for a while, but my phone had been set to vibrate and I hadn’t felt it. That must have been worrying. Sorry, daddy. I told him that I’d seen my way out along a fallen tree. He told me to contact him again if I had any trouble. So I set off.

It was bushy, and the higher branches were still alive. And I got out without difficulty.

And I didn’t have a clue where I was.

A little casting about brought me to the top of the same hill I’d hit earlier. I could have gone down to the plank bridge and followed the stream home. But it was a difficult route. Trying to find a path under and around scrubby trees and long grass. I could follow the stream for a bit, then leave it and trust to my sense of direction and the fact that I’d be heading into the country between the hill and the boathouse – country I’d scouted before. But it’s a bit boggy there too. And it was also the country were my sense of direction and mammy’s had been completely out of kilt.

I decided, instead, to trust my sense of direction to bring me straight through the woods from where I was now. And I couldn’t go too far wrong. The stream was to my left, and the causeway to my right. Either would bring me home. But I wouldn’t head straight for the causeway: I didn’t know what shape that bog was, and I had no desire to meet it again. Besides, it would be nicer to keep to the paths, such as they were.

So I headed down between two incongruous box bushes (there are some in the woods on the other side, remnants of hedges in the depths of the woods; there’s a laurel walk there two, which has gone rather wild) and came out in another of those clearings. Long grass, enough to graze a bull. And, on the far side, a structure. It was built of chipboard: four walls, and no roof, just standing, leaning out on the rounded timbers – pine trunks – which held them up. Over the pine trunks was stuffed bracken, presumably in some effort at disguise, though it was all now dead. Very strange. It was not in any sense well built, but a fair amount of work had gone into it. And how by all that’s reasonable had they managed to transport four eight by four sheets of chip there?

A shallow drain and a single line of trees separated that field from the next. These fields are surely man-made, but why? Why a small clearing in the middle of a wood?

And why was the first field full of knee-high grass and the second of shoulder-high bracken? There was a track through it, leading away from the structure. Someone had walked that way, crushing the bracken, fairly recently. Within the week, at least. But they’d gone only half-way and turned back. I forced my way through and got back into the woods. Ahead was another clearing. When I got a bit closer I could see that it was full of small stakes. Ah! A planting. And where there’s a planting there’s a track. There wasn’t. Not leading into it, anyway. But, only a couple of yards away, there was the causeway. I was up it and on my grateful way home before I’d consciously thought about it. A little way along I saw to my right an explanation for the distant noise of machinery which had been troubling me the entire time. The forestry down there to my right was being cleared. No real surprise there. That’s what it was planted for. I didn’t stop to check whether the tumbledown treehouse was still there, sitting in an oak just this side of the small drain which divides the forestry from the woodland.

On the other side of the road, in the main, more public section of the woods, there is some forestry deep in the middle of broadleaf woods, with no tracks nearby, and I don’t know how they’re going to clear it when they decide to do so.

This is probably five times longer than I thought it would be, so I’ll stop now. I think today’s events curbed my taste for exploration for a while. I’ll stick to known paths for a spell.

TRiG.

D'you know, this is the first journal entry I've made which does not in some way relate to a change in my name.

Traveller in Time with wet shoes after reading
"Do not forget to call your father again . . .

Wishing we had such wild woodlands. "

Thanks. That's not a problem. I live at home. They've all been reassured that I'm alive.

The thing is, I've lived here all my life, and thought myself familiar with these woods, and I had no idea that I could find this in the middle of them. The unexpectedness of it made it far more terrifying. And yes, for a bit, it was terrifying.

TRiG.

!!

Not sure I can sleep after this... Right until the end I wondered whether there would be some punchline in the end... Why not publish as short story?

Sounds great to have woods like that to go wandering off into...but only if it's all terra firma!
I was going to say take care next time you wander out there, but I guess that's needless to say now...

So, yeah, take care!!
Lizard King

Well, I'm home alive and in my bedroom.

And the bed beside me looks inviting.

Goodnight.

TRiG.

Traveller in Time crashing a system
" perhaps you have more luck: < A5076614 >

For many places on earth you should be able to recognise something the size of a football field "

Aye. I'm listed there. Vaguely. Less vaguely than you, though.

TRiG.

, I mean - obviously but still totally

Why don't you write it into an entry Tri? I think that was a brilliant idea.

Very, very pleased to see you're ok.

W

*a 'g' comes stomping through to take up its rightful place*

Make wway! Make way!

I've spotted one or two gramatical points, and a couple of places where the text could be clarified. The descriptions are not all they could be, perhaps.

(Really, it could do with a couple of maps, but that's a minor point.)

And I could egg up the emotion. When I was leaving the bog, and the ground was firm, and the woods were just there, and then, suddenly before me, the vegetation stopped and I was faced with a strip of oozing blackness, I felt a positive revulsion. And, for the first time, real fear that I wouldn't get out.

The realisation that I was dealing with something beyond what I normally encountered, with something that presented a real danger with which I was not well equipped to cope, had come slowly. There was no point of terror as I stood in the middle of the bog. It was when I saw I couldn't get off the edge that that struck.

I've known dangerous bogs before. I meet them all the time. All cut and dried bogs have bogholes and drains. But they are clear: this is safe ground, that is a boghole. If you fall in there you will, in all likelyhood, die. So don't. I can cope with that.

And I can cope with a bit of a squelch in the Wicklow Hills or the Kerry mountains.

This was something different, completely outside my experience. The surface was puckering beneath my feet as the surface of a pond does under the feet of a waterskater. And, like the insect, I would die if the surface broke. (Well, would the one foot hold me as I pulled the other against suction? It might. It might not. I never had to find out.)

TRiG.

Definitely. Only do be careful not to make it too dramatic. The quiet voice is what makes the story more startling - and the ending need not be anything loud either. For me, the anticlimax *is* the climax of the story and that directs it all back to the process of the experience and the sensation of uncertainty in the face of possible horror while on familiar ground. The experience of the way your walk itself evolved is what makes the story. I agree you should publish it. Why not try it in the AWW first, see what reaction it gets? Would that be something you would consider?


W

I'm actually quite glad that I had a long walk back through the woods before I got to civilization. Yes, there is an anticlimax. Good thing, too!

I need to rewrite the introduction. It's confusing. And I'm inclined to waffle. (It actually implies that I'm in the wrong part of the woods altogether, for a bit. Anyone who knows me personally will have a fair idea of where I was. I'm in that place as much as I can be.)

Should I lop off the end? All that stuff about the bracken (that was tough going, actually, but not at all dangerous; and I still wasn't sure where I was or whether I'd meet any more difficulties or nasty spots) and such? Just end the tale where I got back to terra reasonably firma? Or does the quiet wind-down enhance the narritive? It certainly helped me, in real life.

I might throw it into the AWW. I probably will. But I'll rework it a bit first. My main instinct was to get it down while all the details were still clear in my mind. The reader's experience was a secondary consideration. The facts: what happened and, to some extent, what I felt about it. I also dragged in some background stuff that I picked up on a couple of walks I've been on with Crann (the tree charity) and the local historical society. It's some of the oldest continuously wooded areas in the country, protected by being part of a landed estate.

TRiG.

Reading it drew me into the experience. I felt a though I was right there with you. That is a challenge usually for a writer to do: to pull the reader into the emotion of the moment, and the wind down at the end worked for me. It is quite long although I don't see that as a drawback. I don't know, Trig. I loved it, but it is your piece, you need to feel it flow through you. I hope you do take it forward!


W

Hi TRiG!

I agree with Wilma, that I did feel I was there with you, constantly wondering whether 'we' would get out of that predicament! Well, obviously the reader knows you will because you got to write about it, but still... There's definitely a good story there!

Must admit I had some trouble visualising the picture at times, but that's more likely a language thing (not native english speaker so not all too familiar with terms like bog and bracken) - a re-read with a dictionary might help.

Let us read it once you've worked on it??
Good luck
Lizard King

Hello TRiG

I'm just delurking to throw my voice in too - I thought this was a cracking piece of writing and I'd really love to see it in the AWW. You can always work on it down there and you might get some useful feedback on it as well.

Your choice, of course, but this really would look good down there!

Thanks all.

A16262084

1. Changed title.
2. Tidied some grammar.
3. Rewrote introduction.
4. Omitted line about Shardik. (That ditch will always make me think of Shardik, but it's hardly relevant.)
5. Inserted some stuff about the marginal strip of the bog from further on in the conversation.

It is, as I said, a record of my impressions. As such, I am not putting in the waterskater analogy, because it didn't occur to me at the time.

Any comments before I throw this into the AWW to see what they make of it?

TRiG.

I think it is stunning: an adventure straight out of the primeval swamp, a picture painted with words, emotions fired up by the imagination. I'd love to see this in AWW, TRiG.


W

Primeval?

Thanks.

Submitted.

F74130?thread=3574822

TRiG.

Ooops. Did I use the wrong word? Timeless, ancient. No?



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