The wooden stairs creak a bit as you climb up. But it is surprisingly solid inside. And cosy. A little camping stove with a black kettle sitting on it. A log burner in the corner. And a bed, not very large but enough for two bodies to snuggle into, watching the flames leaping and crackling in the log burner.
It’s off grid. No phone signal. No electricity. In the middle of the woods. Two miles from the nearest farmhouse down a dirt track. You need to leave your car at the farm and the farmer, who is also the owner, drops you in his Jeep and leaves you alone. In the midst of a few hundred acres of woods, a mysterious looking lake, tree lined, with dark black waters, pink and white water lilies growing along the edge and a random island in the middle, full of bushes of some kind.
There is a row boat on the lake. And a summer house. The tree house has a balcony as well. With two chairs and a small table. Ideal for whiling away your evening, maybe sipping wine. Or tea. Watching the wind making little silver waves in the dark black of the lake.
You think the silence is almost absolute. Once the last of the cracking embers in the log burner dies. But as your ears get used to it, you hear the stream in the distance. And the pitter patter of the rain on the trees. Maybe a sudden flight of a startled bird.
You think the darkness is almost absolute. Once the last of the red embers in the log burner fades away. But as your eyes get adjusted, you see the faint silhoutte of the moss covered branches against the sky. Dark black against light black.
Your phone is almost out of battery. It wouldn’t be prudent to run out. You decide to switch it off. There is a warm gently snoring foreign body right next to you. You decide to cuddle up. The foreign body makes some slightly protesting noises in its sleep but then relents. The dark cloudy Devon night engulfs you in its embrace.
***
Morning. No marauding forest dweller has broken through the flimsy wooden door and killed you in your sleep. The rain seems to have become heavier. The trip to the loo is a little run. The big trees shade you from most of the rain. It’s just a hole in the ground. But with a seat. And a door. There is no one around so you might as well keep the door open and watch the trees and the grass and listen to the birds while you are doing your thing. There is no flush. Just a sack of saw dust. You just sprinkle a handful after you are done. It all turns to soil in six months. Was what the proprietor had assured you.
Watching the rain falling on the lake from the balcony reminds you of your childhood. The monsoon rain on the pond behind your house. The big drops near the edges from the trees making those circular wavefronts. Interference patterns vanishing into each other.
The middle of the pond (or the lake) is different. Too many drops. You can’t see the effect of any single one. Just constantly criss crossing waves from all sides, making rectangular patterns. A sudden burst of wind creates a shimmer which travels along the length of the lake.
The little blue boat can’t make up it’s mind. One moment it tries to test its rope, wanting to run free. The next moment it wants to come back to its little corner of grass and wood, made comfy by a few rubber tyres so that it doesn’t hit anything too hard.
Every big tree has a creeper around it. And a velvety green coating of moss. The moss seems to grow thicker on the horizontal branches for some reason. And in some old trees, the moss and the creepers form a thick green coating on all the branches right till the top. As if the tree has wrapped itself in a green blanket to protect against the cold.
The path is full of puddles now. You can see the leaves in them. And the sky. It runs along the lake and then disappears into the green. A road to the enchanted forest.
Your tea is almost over. You need to write something in the visitors book. Everyone before you seems to have. And not just a line or two but filled out whole pages. One couple has even pasted their own photographs – a bearded guy and a girl in a sunglass. Someone has stapled their business card.
Lots of peer pressure. You need to reach deep into your armoury of adjectives. The “nices” and the “pleasants” and the “lovelys” won’t do. The couple just before you have stolen “Zen like”. Maybe start with “magical”.
The people with the dogs always have it easy. Our dog loved exploring the place. Our dog jumped into the water. Our dog chased imaginary rabbits and butterflies. Antics of the dog can fill half a page. And then you just add a line or two about you.
I wonder what the dog does at night when you are making love with your other half in the flickering light of the log burner. Does it sit in the balcony and watch you. Wondering what the excitement is all about. Or maybe it’s used to it so it just dozes off.
Your tea is over. Almost time now. You should probably stop trying to write this post and start packing. Maybe you will come back one day. Or maybe not. But you will always remember this little tree house. So spend the last hour watching and listening and absorbing. File the memory away. Tagged under “rain” and “green” and “tree” and “fireplace”.
**
PS: The weather made the drive back to Plymouth worth mentioning. It was the type of weather most people would normally call horrid. But you are not most people. There is something about being on a country road on in the driving rain, with the road disappearing into a grey mist in front of you, your windscreen wipers fighting a losing battle against the rain and nothing to disturb you but an occasional pair of yellow headlamp breaking through the green and grey and rushing by, which brings a smile to your face. And makes you fall in love with driving once again.
Invictus 