The roots of a beech tree on Sharpenhoe Clappers. The trees seem like great arms reaching down from the sky to cling to the chalky slopes with great hands and knuckled fingers. Tethered spirits. In the background the others, bleached almost invisible against the light, seem to stand sentinel like ghostly presences. I've painted here before. The place seems sacred - not just because it was given in honour and memory of two sons who died in last century's wars. From the road, just outside the village of Sharpenhoe, at the foot of the hill, the path rises next to a field and ends in 141 uneven steps. At the top, the grove of trees cover the plateau. And between their trunks, you look out into lungfuls of air and birds across Bedfordshire. Makes me think of Edward Thomas's poem, 'Adlestrop'. www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53744/adlestrop |