Derek Johnson


They went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that overflowed on rainy days and ran down their stems in green cascades. On older trees still than these huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs.

The Woodlanders. Thomas Hardy


Hedges, fields and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun.
Everything had the stamp of summer. And none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the dye.

Pickwick Papers. Charles Dickens.


"…I would like to demonstrate how we can approach each wood and then each tree in an analytical way and how this will help us create our own, more practical stories."

The walkers Guide to Outdoor Clues and Signs. Tristan Gooley