I was bought up in the literary worlds of Tolkien, Grimm and Stephen King to name but a few. The realms of Fangorn and Lothlorien, the stories of the Black Forest and the unending wooded landscape of northern Maine spoke to me of vast, secret domains, dark, dangerous and forbidding.
As a grown man, it came as a shock to realise the landscapes that featured so heavily in those stories from my childhood were not make-believe after all
but all around us.
Somewhere in even the smallest wood there is a spot where the world of fairy breaks through into our own. You may only be yards from a road but close your eyes and listen. If you’re lucky you will hear the hoot of one of John Ronald Reuel’s Ents, if you’re
unlucky, that quiet breathing in your ear is a Lovecraftian demon behind you...
I guess I’m still in touch with my inner child, the one that remembers the thrill of being scared by the monsters in the closet and the creature under the bed.
Because, to be adult does not mean to bury imagination, to forget those stories that now define us but to embrace them and accept they are a part of what makes us individual and helps us to forge our own path through the deep dark wood.