A Wee in the Woods

The woods were beautiful. Of course they were. Nature, greenery, birds tweeting - we all love that sort of thing.

Kind of. There’s something about trees and the way they hang over the path, leering at you. To me, that’s intimidating, not welcoming. Also, you have to peek between the branches to find the sky. I like to know where the sun is, to see where I am, where I am going. The dappled shade of the deep woods doesn’t exactly relax me.

I was on a walk with a Pagan group I had just joined. Being Pagans, they are well into their groves and green stuff. Trying to fit in, I restrained my suspicious glances at the overhanging branches. and cocked my head with feigned interest as they identified a sessile oak here, an ash tree there. How they could tell one from another was beyond me. There were trunks, branches and leaves on each of them. What was the difference?

So far, I wasn’t having fun. Though, I did have to admit that one good thing about wandering in the woods is that the abundance of foliage provides cover when you need to take a wild wee. It’s hard to have a discreet piddle on a beach walk but in the forest you can slip behind something verdant and crouch down. The soil is remarkably absorbent.

This trek was going on and on and I’d had a large pumpkin spice latte at the Starbucks on the way to the meeting place. Not being able to hold it any longer, I attempted to interrupt the group’s walking meditation.

“Um, guys,” I waved my hand as if I were in a school room, “I’m afraid I need to take a comfort break. Do you mind waiting for me while I pop behind this bush-type thingy?”

I thought they heard me, despite the drumming that two of the participants were producing with enthusiasm. One of the blokes nodded. It could have been that he was nodding in rhythm to the beat but I couldn’t wait to confirm. I dashed off to do my business.

When I got back to the path they were gone. I couldn’t even hear the drum. I turned around in a circle, trying to figure out which way to go. Was I even on the right path? I started down one track but heard nothing. My heart started beating faster and tripping over an inconveniently placed root did nothing to improve my piece of mind (or my now muddy trousers). I peered through the branches trying to find the sun’s position. When would it get dark? The best thing would be to go back to the car park. It was a shame that I had no idea how to do that. During the trek, I had just followed along, not paying attention to the twists and turns. There were no landmarks to look out for – no handy Spars shop or petrol station to mark the next turning.

Footprints – I could look for them and follow those back to the car. I turned around and started retracing the steps I had made on my own. Only, I couldn’t see them. The ground was covered with bracken and fallen leaves. Not a footprint to be seen. You’d think the heavy hiking boots I’d been wearing would have made some kind of impression, but no. And they were giving me a blister as well.

I was lost. But at least I didn’t need to wee any more.

There were three paths before me. I decided I’d walk for fifteen minutes down each path and if nothing seemed familiar, I’d turn around and return to this spot. I took off the neckerchief I had on and tied it around a tree trunk to mark my starting position. It seemed like a sensible thing to do. I must have got the idea from a television programme. God knows, I had no wilderness skills.

Down path number one I soon became mired in mud. Okay, this was not somewhere I had been before. I would remember getting my boots claggy and feeling that I had to walk like Frankenstein. How proud I was of myself when I made it back to my starting point! Okay, I’d only walked five minutes down the first alternative but baby steps. I was learning. And now onto door number two - I was pretending I was on a game show. What would I win if I chose path number two? Hopefully, an exit out of here and a quick drive to the nearest pub. My nerves needed an alcoholic balm.

The second path became increasingly overgrown until a machete was required in order to progress. Not having that piece of equipment, I was forced back to my original site. I untied my neckerchief and wound it around my throat. The midges were biting and one had got me at the back of my neck. Besides, I wouldn’t be returning to this crossroads. There was only one path left.

This one led me deep into the woods and I couldn’t help noticing the shadows lengthening. I was going to be left out here, alone, in the dark. A branch snapped behind me and I turned, expecting to see a bear, a wild boar or an axe murderer. Instead, I spied an enormously fat squirrel. That was frightening enough.

I started to run, letting branches whip against my face and vaulting over rocks and branches in my way. I turned left, then right. It was possible I was travelling in a circle, like a hamster in a wheel. Certainly, my efforts seemed that fruitless. Tears pricked my eyes and I was forced to wipe my snotty nose across the sleeve of my new khaki Timberland shirt. Why had I tried to join a group of nature lovers? Me, who thought an exciting day out was a walk around a landscaped garden followed by a cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake.

I sank to my knees, no longer worried about mud stains on my jeans. I was well and truly lost. I would never escape this hell hole. A year from now, a dog walker would stumble over my rotting carcass and their dog would chew on my shinbone.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder.

“There you are!”

I leapt to my feet and whirled around.

“We though we lost you,” the leader of the Pagan group smiled at me and gave a small chuckle.

It was hardly a laughing matter. I found I was unable to reply.

“But I see you made it back to the carpark on your own. Well done. It’s not an easy trail if you’re unfamiliar with it.”

I looked over my shoulder. There, between the trees, I could see my beat-up Ford, bathed in the last rays of the day’s sun. I reached in my pocket for my keys.