You must forgive this little Australian for being excited about moss and lichen in England's woods. You see, whilst I trip around taking photos of moss, it's 38 degrees at home and the tiny little bit of moss I'd cultivate on a rock in my garden is probably dust now. For us dry climate folk, moss is a bloody marvel.

Whole worlds of marvels live in the woods just around my mother in laws house. I can get lost taking photos of them, the camera enabling me to get get up close with with the pixies and faeries. Look at these wood ears, listening to the earth. Apparently you can soak them in liquer and coat them in dark chocolate and they make moorish treats. There's something macabre about chocolate ears, though, don't you think?

ONe can find elf cups too. Apparently they're good on toast with cream cheese, but I'd rather leave them for the elves.

There's a geography here I have to get used to again. ONe reads the landscape differently, finds their way differently. At home there's no right of way across farmer's fields - here they are ancient walking tracks where you go through stiles to cross into another farmer's field or along a stream and directions are just as fuzzy, naming trees and rocks and hills as waypoints. I'm not very good at reading ordance survey maps, which are essential around here.

Hogweed and angelica push up from the floor. I don't trust umbelliflorous plants - they'll kill you as soon as look at you, or leave big blisters. My sister in law names poisonous plants - I name the medicinal and edible ones. One must have a knowledge of both. I pick garlic mustard and wild garlic, tri cornered leeks and cleavers.

Although I long for the sea, walking around here keeps me sane and happy. It's fresh and it's cold but it's just beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

And of course, with my partner in adventure, how can I not be happy? Being here reminds me of the first years of our marriage and how infatuated I was with my man of the woods that taught me so much about being in this country. How easy he walked through this landscape!

Whereas home is dry and dusty, here is so wet your boots disappear in the ground if you're not careful. The water bubbles up from the ground. It runs down the roads. It whirlpools down drains and under archeways and people's houses. It rushes and rushes and rushes.

It's dangerous, too - children drown in flood waters. I wonder about the run off from farm land. It's not always safe to drink. But there's an illusion of utter fertility and nourishment. The badgers and the rabbits and the blackbirds drink and I suppose they are happy, in the pockets of wild they can find.

There's also a waterfall that comes straight out of the Mendip hills, spring water they bottle. When our large water filter arrives in the Land Rover, we're going to fill up with this beautiful stuff, just to make sure we are not unwittingly drinking something we shouldn't.

A waterfall is a magical thing. It tumbles and falls, sparkles and shines, rushes and swishes. It bubbles and burbles and trips its way down the green world like it knows it is special. People stand on teh bridge and watch it like they'd watch a fire. A waterfall attracts, mesmerises, enthralls, even a small one such as this. At home, the waterfalls have slowed to a trickle.

And so this is what a walk around the block means for us now, in England, at my mother in laws. One cannot be too sad about being land locked, I suppose.

With Love,

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