Lost landscapes.
As I get older, these 'lost landscapes' begin to grow in their pull over my imagination. An undertow in the sea, dragging you down, not to drown, but to almost remember something.
A thicket of trees, bony and clanky, found on bright cold January days. Somewhere on the edges of town.
These lost landscapes are so often the province of trees; spinneys, copses, coverts, thickets. Even small clusters of trees, a conspiracy of branches and boughs and little more. Accessed by moving sideways through the quotidian environs of suburbia. A place always there, but you've never noticed till now.
A seafront cafe at night. Light spilling out onto the breezy boulevard.
Alone in the nothing-ness of a seaside town out of season. Why is it open so late? Why are so many people here? Am I merely confusing this lost landscape with the Meeting Place cafe on the actual seafront?
A summer holiday, a path across crop fields to - yes - another thicket of trees.
When I was on holiday in Wales this year, I became half-convinced that if I did indeed just cross a number of fields I might find this place I dream of.
A dripping forest, tropical, marshy ground. Looking at a distance of great plants...
And this seems to emerge from childhood... Some television programme perhaps? An illustratuion in a book?
I suppose the point is I'll never know - as soon as these landscapes are 'found', they'll lose whatever mystery it is that keeps them alive.
