Stories in the Woods by Martin Maudsley
Once there was a woman who loved the woods. She loved to walk between the trees through the turning year, savouring the seasons. One springing morning, she came to an ancient oak, with its crown of bronze-tinged leaves unfurling in the pale sunshine. She stopped to rest, sitting comfortably within the roots of the tree and gazing up into its light and leafy canopy; caught in the magic of the moment. She breathed out slowly and whispered: ‘Thank-you!”’Immediately, the bark behind her beginning to tremble. As she stood up, she saw a crack appear in the trunk, slowly widening to reveal a green door. She pushed it open, and stepped inside the tree…
When we walk into a woodland, we open a door into a world of stories; a place of myth and magic. Here we leave the hustle of ordinary lives and step into tree-time, into the possibilities of the more-than-human. In folktales and fairy tales, woodlands are often a place of transformation, where characters enter one way but always come out differently, if at all. Amongst the trees they face their demons, undertake challenges, find hidden secrets and gain hard-fought truths. As well the settings for stories, the woods are the wonderful locations for storytelling; sitting around a log fire under the canopy of the trees. Here imaginations naturally meld with the surroundings, where each creaking of the branches and every bird call is immediately woven into the flow of the story.
For the past year, over a complete cycle of the seasons, I’ve been telling stories in a public-access green space called Highfield Country Park, within the conurbation of Manchester. A former farmland, abandoned to grow wild, it now comprises a mongrel mosaic of habitats from self-regenerated woodland and transitional scrubland, to mown meadows and hedges. It’s a liminal place: between city and countryside, neither entirely natural nor artificially created. There’s a wealth of wildlife, thriving naturally, but it remains a tangibly human-friendly environment, well-loved and well-used by local people for their own recreational uses. As an unfussy forest, without rare species or high conservation status, it’s valuable for its ‘nearby nature’ – one of the hallmarks of local distinctiveness that environmental arts charity Common Ground have championed over the last 40 years.
Local heroes Jane Doyle and Freya Morton run regular Forest School sessions in Highfield Country Park with children from St Mary’s RC Primary, Levenshulme. A couple of years ago they contacted Common Ground to find out more about our Seasonal Schools project. Having previously worked as the storyteller-in-residence for a pilot programme in Dorset schools, they invited me to help shape and deliver their own seasonal storytelling project: Stories in the Woods. Through a grant from the National Lottery Heritage Fund, their vision was to use traditional crafts and storytelling as a focus for children to form creative, long-lasting connections with the natural world and the changing seasons. They also commissioned a local filmmaker, Jack Jackson, to document the project and create a series of seasonal storytelling films as a legacy to inspire other schools and communities. By strange coincidence, Jack’s own father and grandfather used to farm the land where we now gather – telling tales of the seasons, surrounded by stories of place.
All the videos from the project, seasonal stories told by myself and woodland crafts recounted by the children, are available on the Common Ground website: www.commonground.org.uk/seasonal-schools
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October. Autumn; Samhain/Hallowe’en. Earth, fallen leaves, seeds, life and death.
Once there was a hunter: as tall as a spear, as strong as a bow and his eyes as sharp as arrows. He lived in a wooden cabin in a clearing in the woods, with his wife and their four young boys. One day in October, as golden leaves were falling from the trees, he set off to go hunting in the forest, to bring back food for his family. He should have returned by nightfall, but by the next he still hadn’t returned. So, with their mother’s consent, the boys set out into the forest to try and find their father…
Late October and it’s damp and drizzly in Highfield Country Park. Despite the dismal weather, I’ve happily spent the morning with Jane and Freya, talking excitedly about the philosophy of environmental storytelling and planning the afternoon’s practical activities. It’s the first of four seasonal storytelling sessions, appropriately starting at Samhain (Hallowe’en) – the ending and beginning of the year in the ancient Celtic Calendar.
As Jane and Freya go to fetch the children from school, I’m in charge of tending the fire; which has suddenly started to sulk. But half an hour later, the flames are flickering brightly. I hear the children approaching – cheerily chattering like goldfinches as they walk into the woods, their feet kicking through the fallen leaves. Like a hunter hidden amongst the trees, I see them long before they see me. It’s an innately pleasing feeling afforded by the forest – seeing without being seen – one that the children themselves come to relish during the sessions in the woods.
We chat over lunch, gently getting to know each other, playing with alliterative names; secret Sophie, fearsome Frederic, mysterious Martin… We discuss what the seasons are, and which one it is right now. Then I ask them look around and think about how we can tell that its Autumn. The answers reflect mostly the trees, now in various stages of undress; their leaves transforming from green to gold to brown, forming deep pools on the ground. We talk of how the natural world around us is visibly dying down, withdrawing. But they recognise, instinctively as much intellectually, that the wild world already has what it needs to spring back to life again; there are living seeds amongst the dead-leaf mulch. In seasonal folklore, Hallowe’en is the period when the worlds of the living and the dead are close together. With the backdrop of an autumnal woodland, I tell the story of Hunter’s Moon, where four sons go deep into the forest in autumn to find their father and bring him back to life.
After telling the tale, I ask them to explore the site to look for ‘story evidence’; physical objects and places that manifest the imaginative world of the story. Within minutes we’re discussing their various ‘archaeological’ discoveries and imaginative interpretations: a pointed branch that was the hunter’s spear; a dead log that might be a leg; red berries on the bushes as splashes of blood; a clearing that marks the spot of the hunter’s hut. Then, suddenly, one of them points up at a nearby tree. Amazingly, by strange synchronicity, a hand-made bow of hazel and string has been left hanging suspended from its branches.
Some people say that being outdoors is boring. But I can see dragons in the trees…
Once the children’s imaginations are fired up, we use our found objects to collaboratively improvise new stories, each one used as a new piece of a narrative jigsaw. The conjured stories only live in the brief moment of their telling; living and dying like the natural world around us, yet meaningfully hold our experiences of being in that seasonal moment.
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December. Mid-Winter Solstice, Yule, Christmas. Fire, charcoal, holly and ivy.
Once there was a girl called Mary who was as bright as spring, as soft as summer, and as honest as autumn. But, one cold winter her cruel step-mother sent her out into the forest to find strawberries; even though the snow lay thick on the ground. Eventually she came to a clearing amongst the birch trees, with a brightly burning fire. Around the flames sat twelve men and women, all different ages and dressed differently. On the highest seat was an old woman with flowing, snowy hair. “I’m Mother January”, she said. “And these are my eleven brothers and sisters, together we are the Twelve Months. Let’s see if we can help…”
It’s December and the woods are damp and dark, the light amongst the bare trees is no more than a murky grey, even at mid-day. It’s colder too than last time but this time the camp-fire is properly roaring, fuelled by our stack of well-seasoned logs. We hang a waterproof tarp high in the trees to keep the rain off and enjoy the cosy camaraderie of being outdoors in winter by an open fire. As well as its physical functions, the fire connects us together in a temporary community. It naturally provides a shared focal point as the stories are told, igniting our imaginations as we stare into the dancing flames. I tell the story of the Twelve Months, where Mary, badly treated and banished into the winter woods, finds a circle of mysterious characters sitting around the flames. Harnessing the magic of the fire, they transform the young woman’s fate. Afterwards, the children show me their own elemental transformations from the previous session: charcoal sticks, made from green twigs of willow in metal tins in the embers of the fire.
Winter is when we need stories, to keep us warm on the inside…
The children make leafy crowns from long twines of pliant evergreen ivy, plus a few spiky holly leaves for the brave. They make one for me, which I’m wearing (around my woolly hat) as we gather back around the fireside for another story. The Father of the Forest relates how three brave boys, left on their own at Mid-Winter, meet the magical spirit of the trees in human form. He brings them festive gifts for looking after the creatures of the forest. With a crown of oak and holly leaves, a large beard and a loud laugh, he resonates with other archetypal and seasonal characters; Gawain’s Green Knight and Father Christmas himself, before his more modern makeover.
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March. Spring Equinox; Easter. Water, birdsong, eggs, shape-shifting.
Once there was an old woman who lived in an old cottage with a little garden, where she kept chickens. One night, in late March, she awoke in the middle of the night, convinced that it was already morning. In the dark she dressed and packed her basket with eggs to take to market. On the way she suddenly saw a white hare running swiftly towards her, shining brightly in the light of the silvery moon…
I return to Highfield Country Park in late March. It’s still wet in the woods but noticeably warmer; spring is leaping into action. Willow and birch trees are just beginning to green-up, and blackthorn blossom is flowering frothy-white at the edges of the copse. The biggest difference, though, is the surround-sound birdsong; winter robins and wrens now jubilantly joined by a song thrush’s virtuoso performance and the insistent two-tone calls of chiffchaffs: sing-spring, sing-spring, sing-spring.
The children have been making clay birds with Jane and Freya, cleverly created so that they whistle when you blow into their tails. As ever, when teaching their woodland craft skills, they have facilitated the children to each create an object with functional form, yet with freedom for individual creative expression. Sitting in a little flock by the fireside, the painted birds look like they are ready to fly into a story.
The recent news about Ukraine is in all our minds. So, I tell them about Pysanky – a Ukrainian Easter tradition involving decorating and writing messages on eggs. The origin of the custom is explained by a local legend called The Bird’s Gifts, where a group of children once rescued a flock of migrating birds that had been caught in a severe snowstorm. The birds are housed in the local church, and provided with food by the villagers during the winter weeks. But by the beginning of spring, the birds are singing and fluttering around the church with renewed energy, so the doors are flung open to let the birds fly free. It’s then that the children notice the birds have left behind a nest of eggs, each inscribed with beautiful patterns and words of thanks.
When I hear a story, I make a picture of the story in my head…
Many seasonal folktales involve shape-shifting: humans changing into animal (or tree) form and vice versa. The Springing Hare tells of an old woman who saves a white hare chased by the Devil, who then transforms into a beautiful young woman and brings the dawning of spring. Such stories allow us to emotionally connect with our inner wild selves, as well imagine how different animals sense and interact with the surroundings. In another story, The Boy who became a Bear, an orphan boy shifts shape into animal-form when he is adopted by family of bears. After the story, the children are animated in imagining being different beings and talking about their own preferences for what animal family they would choose.
In the woods, the seasons are constantly shifting shape as well. Like a rolling river, seasonal changes can pass us by unless we intentionally immerse ourselves in the outdoor elements; feel the flow. After sitting by the fire, we take time to wander the woods: searching for signs of spring. It is perhaps the most elongated season, from the first of Snowdrops in January all the way through to the effervescence of early May. Looking for evidence of spring becomes addictive – everywhere we look, something new has appeared in the natural world; buds and birds, ferns and flowers.
Through the changing seasons, returning to the same place, the children grow in familiarity; noticing changes in the natural world around and expressing the reactions within themselves. Sometimes they spend time on their own in ‘sit spots’, other times we rove around in a big group to explore and exclaim our reactions. They often talk about the things they remember from the previous session or remark on what has now changed in the woods – making connections, joining the dots, feeling part of the place
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June. Summer; solstice. Air, warmth, trees, music and magic.
In the beginning the Sky God came down to Earth and chose two humans, a young man and a young woman, to help with the ordering of the heavens and the movements of the Sun. In return they were granted eternal youth. The young man was named Dusk – he was entrusted with the setting of the sun. Each evening he douses the Sun’s flames and wraps it in a dark blanket of night, so that no harm should come to it. The young woman was named Dawn – she was entrusted with the rising of the sun. Each morning she re-ignites its flames and sends it soaring across the sky. Once a year, at summer solstice, they meet together – when the time and space between Dawn and Dusk is short and sweet…
We saved the best until last, perhaps. The woods of Highfield Country Park are warm and welcoming by the time of our final summer session in late June. There’s no need for rain tarp, although the fire is lit – a constant, comforting element even in the seasonal warmth. The growth of greenery and the luxuriance of the leaves all around us feels like we’re being hugged by the woods, gently held within a secret, sacred grove. We talk of Juno, the Roman goddess of youth and fertility, who gives her name to this month. As we settle to tell another tale, we suddenly notice shafts of sunshine through the trees, materialising like ethereal statues as they catch the drifting smoke. “Look,” says one of the children. “The gods and goddesses have come to listen to the story too…”
How do we know when it’s summer? When the days get longer and clothes get shorter!
Like the birds in the branches, we often end up singing during our woodland sessions. It feeds and facilitates children’s natural inclination to join in and they visibly relish playing with rhythm, rhyme and repetition. Communal singing is a great way to change the mood, create and atmosphere and let go of whatever baggage we arrive with that day. Sometimes we make up a song in the moment; improvising words inspired by the seasonal setting. Other times I teach them a chorus that’s repeated regularly within a story, which helps to both move the narrative along and allow breathing space for the story images to settle.
In an Estonian story called Mikku and the Trees, a woodcutter is confronted by the singing voice of each tree begging not to be chopped down:
Don’t chop me, I’m a very important tree,
Please, please listen to my leaves
And don’t chop me…
As the story progresses, and the song is repeated, the children name a tree and become its voice, advocating its particular values: birch for basket making, oak for shade, hazel for nuts, willow for sheer graceful beauty. Their knowledge of the woods, and traditional crafts and the seasons themselves are intertwined within the fabric of the story.
The day after the last of the seasonal storytelling sessions in Highfield Country Park, I’m invited to tell a story as part of the school’s summer solstice celebration held in their own outdoor education area. Once more, the fire is burning bright as we gather together – perhaps a hundred people including children with tin whistles, accordions and bodhrans. The folk music group is run by Angela Usher, who was recently awarded an MBE for services to music education, and it’s absolutely magical to hear so many young folk play instruments with such passion and enjoyment. Another local resident and professional folk musician, Rionagh Connolly, sings a summer solstice song in Gaelic Irish, accompanied by her husband Ellis Davies on guitar. The whole circle is held in a magical, musical spell; it’s as if the sun itself has stopped to listen.
Perhaps, midway way through the calendrical year, is an odd time to finish. But we leave on a high, with the sun at its Midsummer peak, before it beginning its slow descent; and another cycle of the seasons.
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Martin Maudsley is a professional storyteller based in Bridport, specialising in stories of the natural world and local landscapes. He is currently storyteller-in residence for environmental arts charity Common Ground, using creative storytelling to connect people of all ages with nature, the seasons and a sense of place. In recent years, he has helped to develop their Seasonal Schools project, including this year-long project with St Mary’s Levenshulme primary school in Manchester.
His first book, Telling the Seasons, is published by The History Press on 6 October – an illustrated storyteller’s journey through the twelve months of the year with folktales, customs and traditions. Drawing on the changing patterns of nature and the rich tapestry of folklore from the British Isles, it’s a colourful guide into how and why we continue to celebrate the seasons.
Martin can often be found enjoying seasonal festivities around Dorset, from firelit winter wassails to bright and early May Day mornings.
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