Growing up, I'd spend half the school holidays in my grand parent's holiday home in the Jura mountains. Lost in rural France we'd spend our time reading, playing board games, and going on long walks. Walking sticks made of hazel would faithfully be waiting for us under the house. We'd slide our hands under the bottom of the house afraid of spider webs and monsters lurking below to retrieve the sticks. They would always be there, carrying with them stories of hibernation. We would measure ourselves against the stick, remembering whose stick was whose - a task more difficult as time went past and we grew up. I haven't been back to that house in over ten years. I wonder if the sticks are still there, waiting for the warm hands of a child to grab hold of the wood and set off the surrounding forests. Or have they begun the long journey of disintegration as insects gnaw at the hazel and earth takes back what was once graciously offered to us. They always felt so special. At times, I yearned to sneak them into the car to carry them home. I never did. I knew they did not belong in the fields and streets of everyday life. They held a magic that was intrinsically linked to the mountains. I didn't dare break that link.Clearing a cobwebbed corner of our shed, I re-found this unique walking-stick. A rod-straight hazel wand, sent corkscrew by the wild clematis that twined clockwise round it. Time, sun, growth & motion. Given to me by @nickhayesillus1. Send stories & photos of walking-sticks… pic.twitter.com/PqvCVLIqmd
— Robert Macfarlane (@RobGMacfarlane) April 10, 2022