GWANWYN HAF HYDREF GAEAF | SPRING SUMMER WINTER AUTUMN

To the casual eye Fron-wen’s forest interior of Sitka spruce can appear seasonless. It’s as if the forest has the seasons on hold. There are no falling leaves to remind you of where you are in the year and only the most extreme weather penetrates its inner depths. The glow and height of the sun arcing through the pine spires can often be the only indication of time passing. Like a frozen still the trees stand in silence. You have to look closer to see the subtle changes that the seasons bring under the canopy, otherwise the seasons seemingly blend. It’s as if the seasons have forgotten their names.

The miniature worlds of the fungi however is one such reminder that it’s autumn. The naming of fungi often employs anthropomorphism which is in contrast to the monoculture of the Sitka spruce that surrounds them. I enjoy their relative smallness, their colour and variety as they delicately float on the thick carpet of moss surrounded by their neighbouring towering giants. They can appear quickly and their spacing alludes to their subterranean interconnectivity. It’s easy to understand their tenure on folklore here.

‘I’ve come to spend the night in the forest.’

Under an August dusk I lay out my bed beneath the lichened branches and crawl into my sleeping bag. At dusk the light seems to be balanced between the sunset, the sunrise and the moon. It’s getting dark now and I have to rely on my hearing to keep up with the environment around me. At night it becomes completely black under the trees. As I lie lock-still I can see the moon moving as it rises through the quietly dancing branches of the forest above.

In the dark everything is kept hidden. When I stop and hold my breath I can hear the trees. A rustle, a disturbance, a squeak from a branch. Animals are also moving in the dark. I can hear something circumnavigating and moving along a familiar trail close by. It feels like there are two separate worlds here where time ticks away at different paces. I’m reminded of Robert Perkin’s film Into the Great Solitude and the diversity of the natural world and the importance of tuning in.

“Travelling by yourself you come closer to the land, closer to the animals. It’s a sort of melding with the environment around you. Here you are drawn out of yourself. Your eye wanders to distant horizons and looks for the details”.

In the dark I hear a distant gun shot, though its direction is difficult to determine. After a pause, a gentle breath of wind passes through the canopy above. It’s as if the forest is breathing out in response.

But how would it be to live in this forest? In the past, settlers slept under a chosen tree to decide where to build their homes. Seeing the spirit of the place in a dream was a sign that the place was right. The tree was the spirit’s house and it was cherished. It was offered the first of everything: the first harvest, the first milk from a cow who had just calved. The inhabitants’ destiny was closely connected to the tree. What happened to the tree happened to the people.

I’m woken by the sound of a distant chainsaw. Someone is cutting wood. I’m reminded of the framed portrait of a woodcutter in Another Way of Telling by John Berger and Jean Mohr. Like the rings of a tree I perennially return to this book. It has become a dependable companion when looking for clarity or not being able to see the word for the trees!

At day break ‘shivelights’ pierce the forest canopy. I roll up my bed and leave. I break the cover of the forest, re-associate and descend a forestry track back the way I had come

(Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1888, That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection).

FRON-WEN IS THE CREATIVE PROJECT OF BEVIS BOWDEN

THE PROJECT WAS STARTED IN MAY 2025