The Trailhead

The open fields end abruptly here at a ragged wall of trees, as though someone drew a line and told the forest not to cross it. A weathered signpost stands at the start of the trail, its arms pointing in several directions at once and its lettering long since worn to guesses. A wooden stile crosses the old fence, and a noticeboard nailed to a post is layered with faded warnings, lost-dog notices and one or two things that make less sense.

Behind, the land rolls back down toward the river and its bridge. Ahead, the trail plunges into the green gloom of the woods, and just off to the side, a thin curl of smoke rises from the chimney of a small cabin.