Reflections Of A Squirrel On A Hot July Afternoon

Another branch of the old oak bent with slightest crack under my weight. Yes, that was definitely a nice jump.

 It’s so hot today. The whole park is bathed in the sun and there is almost tangible laziness in the heavy air. Some like it. I don’t. Well, I do enjoy an occasional sunny day- makes my fur glitter so nicely. As if it was made of silver. Or diamonds. Wait…I’m not a magpie!

So what if I’m vain? Another nut. Mmm….this one is delicious indeed. Ripened, nicely rounded. Why don’t squirrels get the right to have feelings? People are so ignorant. They think that only they can experience the ‘deepest feelings’ of love and hatred. They come here with their impressive books and think that by reading ‘A la recherche du temps perdu’ they can find the time time they’ve lost. Or that by immersing themselves in Shakespearean novels they can learn something about love and passion. Well, fair enough maybe they can. Those are not the ones that really bother me.

I don’t like the ones that come here and instead of enjoying the immensity of the trees and the gracefulness with which we jump, keep staring at the screens of their phones.

Lovey-dovey couples that come here and sit it on the bench but instead of talking to each other, snapchat (I think I got this right but can’t be sure- we don’t need this kind of modality in our kingdom) their pictures and think that by capturing them on Instagram with hasghtags: #beautifulsunnyday# anothergorgeousdayinLondon# omgasquirrel they will convince other people hat they are having amazing time.

But are they? How can they really be here and enjoy the moment, enjoy the NOW when they are instagramming their moments away?  Maybe they are the ones that should read ‘A la recherche du temps perdu’. But then again, how can they FIND something they never experienced because they were too busy living in another dimension?

‘Who gives you the right to judge others?’- you could ask. Well fair enough, I’m only a squirrel. But then, again, isn’t a squirrel entitled to its own opinion? After all, living in a world without mobile phones and ipads, I get a chance to observe. And observing people is so interesting. No wonder they call it people-watching.

This couple, there, on my right, is engaging in some serious PDA right now (see, how good I am with this slang. People-watching is definitely worth my time. I learn so much). But is it really public if no one but me can see them at the moment? Now, that’s a philosophical question. They are in a public place. True. But there is no one around them except for me. Well, I’ll ask some of my friends for their opinion.

I prefer this to ignorance, however. At least they are embracing the moment and truly LIVING it, instead of pretending to exist in virtual world whilst making this one slip away.

Oh, here’s another nut. This one is going to taste just delicious.

Wychwood Fields

Fields near Wychwood, August 1614

The usual beauty of the landscape was further enhanced by the contrast between the golden fields of rye and dark graphite sky. One could hear the angry rumbling of the fast-approaching thunderstorm and see the serpent-like lightnings tearing the horizon. The whole view was so captivating that only a really observant onlooker would have spotted three feminine figures running across the fields. And only upon approaching them would he be able to notice the identical otherworldly faces framed by flame-red hair tumbling in ringlets upon their shoulders. If the said onlooker was a stranger, he would probably just gasp in admiration, overwhelmed by the women’s striking beauty. If he were empathetic enough, he would also feel a thrill of fear running down his spine. But that was all. Yet if the onlooker were a habitant of Wychwood village, he would flee in panic upon glimpsing the figures, as he would have realised who they were: the infamous witches of Wychwood.

What have they done to deserve such reputation no one would be able to tell. Perhaps it was the fact that even the gods are jealous, let alone simple villagers? So much beauty, intelligence and pride is always a dangerous combination.

  Especially if it is multiplied by three. And especially if the behaviour is difficult to understand. How could one explain the fact that the children dying of infections were suddenly cured by an aromatic mixture of herbs picked up by the Witches in the forest? Or, even more bizarrely, that the process of drinking the medication had to be accompanied by a soft chanting in the words the villagers could not understand? How could one comprehend that no one could resist the inviting smile and twinkle in the Witches’ eyes? Or that the Witches’ garden was always filled with flowers- proud roses, shy lilies of the valley, cheerful poppies and flirty violets, even when the harsh winter made it impossible for the flowers to bloom anywhere else?

Witches were strange. There was something too different and magical about them for the villagers to like them, yet they were too useful for them not to accept the fact that they had to coexist with them peacefully in Wychwood. No one, however, would calmly stay with them in the fields, especially if the Witching Hour was approaching. Some even believed that the Witches could control the thunders (Who else would have burnt down the oak which used to be a jewel of the village, standing in the centre and inviting the couples in love to exchange their vows underneath the umbrella of its leaves?), yet the more reasonable ones realised that that story might have been a little far-fetched.

All in all, no one in their right mind would want to be there in the fields near Wychwood in the company of the three Witches.

The said Witches were in fact ecstatic. They were running freely, enjoying the wind in their hair and listening to the sound of the approaching storm and the rustling of the leaves. They were laughing at the mere thought that someone might perceive them as danger. What they were about to do was far from being harmful.

One of them, having recently fallen in love with a handsome and fearless villager with greyish- brown eyes, decided that this cheerful moment should be commemorated. She convinced her two sisters to cast a spell upon the fields and the forest surrounding Wychwood.

The thunder, accompanied swiftly by a lightning made it impossible to hear the words the Witches whispered while casting the spell. Only the nearby birches heard them and giggled cheerfully already anticipating witnessing many beautiful moments.

Present Day

People do indeed find happiness near Wychwood. Once they arrive there they understand what Laurie Lee must have felt when he wrote ‘Cider With Rosie’. They simply get intoxicated by the beauty of Cotswolds.

And only the wooden nymphs inhabiting the enchanted woods laugh softly when they see them sitting on a tree that has been knocked over by a violent windstorm, engaged in serious conversations. For, although they do realise how powerful the spell cast by the Witches was, they know that the real magic lies in transcending conventions and believing that moments like this are what is worth living for.