Yesterday, 5 January, I walked in Hillfield Gardens, Gloucester, in the early afternoon. Overall it was bright and sunny, despite being cold. But in shady spaces there were residues of frost.
I noticed how they changed the look and feel of these spaces for me. They became quietly exotic, as if differently blessed than the green grass in the sunlit areas. A light dusting was enough to make a difference. The three pictures below show the effects of the frost’s magic dust on a small tree, and old puddle on the path and fallen leaves on grass. All very ordinary. But the touch of frost had made them special to me in that moment. They held my attention, and enriched my day. It was an instance of re-enchantment.
I have lived in Gloucester since January 2022. Specific locations in the city affect me in different ways.
The physic garden at Llanthony Secunda Priory is one of them. It feels both open and tranquil. Earth and sky are strongly present and jointly nurturing. It is a good space for unpressured reflection.
I was in the garden yesterday afternoon, feeling my way into 2026. It was a bright moment in the day, about an hour before the still early sunset. It was cold but not freezing. I was feeling good in myself. I wondered how my life with Elaine will unfold now that we are both a little more mobile. I reflected on the dance of loving and being loved.
As a left the garden, I acknowledged my fears about the wider world. I walked to another favourite place, very close to Llanthony, where the Gloucester canal begins its journey out of the city. There is irrepressable bird life in the foreground and a (to me) liberating expanse of water beyond. My picture doesn’t tell me what’s around the corner and I am reminded to live with unknowing. I didn’t walk any further on this occasion.
Returning home, I learned the news from Venezuela – in particular the kidnapping, as I would name it, of the President. I fear this may become yet another running sore in the life of the world. Modern Druidry, my spiritual anchor, has a strong commitment to justice and peace, where each is understood as compromised by the absence of the other.
Druidry isn’t an ‘above the battle’ path. Whilst not mandating any specific partisanship, this path does assert political values and points to a willingness to engage. So, in 2026, I’m asking myself more specifically where to put my limited energies, and how justice and peace work meshes with my contemplative inquiry. Indeed, this is where my inquiry has now arrived.
A Scots pine in Hillfield Gardens (1), 28 November, 10.32 am. It stands out both as a tall tree and an evergreen. It asks me to look up and pay attention to it, and beyond it, almost losing sight of its deciduous neighbour. For me, this representative of the ‘eternal green’ has a commanding presence.
The Scots pine is one of the oldest trees native to Britain. It is also one of the trees associated with ogham lore (2), where the Scots pine is linked to the wisdom of overview. According to The Green Man Tree Oracle, ancient shamans of many traditions would literally climb to the top of a central tent pole or tree and “from this vantage point they could see clearly into the spirits’ inner world and come back with knowledge for the tribe or family they served” (2).
For me as for many people, the end of the calendar year is a time for reflection and taking stock. New year resolutions are a possible modern version of this process, but mine never really worked. They were overprescriptive and a way of setting myself up to fail.
‘Overview’ asks for a less driven and more contemplative approach, one more connected with Spirit. This is a good reminder as I start to wonder about how I am going to navigate 2026: divining what my contributions and satisfactions might look like as the Wheel continues to turn.
Alney Island at midday on 9 November. Looking up, I encountered a bleak majesty of now skeletal trees. Muted sunlight found its way through the grey clouds. In contrast, the river at my side retained a full, lush beauty.
As I walked, the tranquility of the scene was compromised at times by anxiety. The island is a wetland. It had been raining. More rain was due. The paths were puddled and muddy. The grass was soft and wet, half hiding twigs, leaves and slippery earth. I am still not fully recovered from my fall and this walk was a deliberate escalation in challenge. When I reached Richard’s Wood I stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell. At the same time I was able to enjoy a rich carpet of leaves at this late period in the leaf fall.
Among the trees I contemplated branches as living sculpture. It was as if I had reached a destination. Generally the branches were still holding on to at least some leaves. There were even new ones, in this fecund space. Eventually, my encounter with the wood completed, I turned round and made my cautious way home.
I have now lived in Gloucester long enough to have a territorial sense of the city. When walking from a southerly direction, an elegant square and its garden signal my nearness to home. This signal is physical, emotional and psychic. My cognitive knowledge is secondary.
This signal is soon followed up by another, stronger one, closer to our apartment. Under looming grey clouds stands a tall, mature hornbeam. Once indoors, I will be able to look at it through our balcony windows – majestic even as it sheds its leaves.
The hornbeam is an iconic (I might almost say totemic) marker of ‘home’. Elaine and I do not individually own this tree and nor would we want to. But our city council does, with obligations towards it. That’s probably why it’s still there.
This sense of home and blessing: where does it come from? We are not migratory birds. But we used to be a bit more like them. Nomadic, but often within defined territories, however large, which we could get to know and love without the need for exclusive possession. There are people in the world who still try to live in this way but it is becoming increasingly difficult.
I speculate that part of my bodymind finds this arrangement natural, even though culture here is (mostly) very different. The feeling tone of my walking varies dramatically with different levels of newness and familiarity. In the approach to home, signalled not only by distance but also by landmarks, this is particularly strong. Perhaps this is the residue of a long lost pattern of life.
Now in the fourth week after my shoulder fracture, I have ventured out on a contemplative walk.
I rested for awhile in the erstwhile physic garden of Llanthony Secunda Priory. It is a friendly space for me. Yet at first I felt very small. An alien energetic sky raced high above me towards an unknown horizon.
I wasn’t used to the outdoors. The garden stretched in front of me, defined by a long straight path. I experienced the world as a place of distance and extension. I felt alarmingly unsheltered, until I stilled myself and looked down.
The sight of Michaelmas daisies altered my state. Seasonal flowers and a living, shining green. Although I didn’t move to touch them, I felt like a toddler reaching out for a mother’s hand. I was held again within the wheel of the year. Autumn, the season of bearing fruit.
I looked out further and received rhe assurance of an old stone wall, and the majesty of mature trees. The trees might be turning. The wall might be part of a ruin. But they were still in place, still present in time, still offering a quiet companionship.
These changes in perspective allowed me to experience the garden afresh, more closely and intimately. It was easier to be in, and easier to connect with. Still unsheltered, but unalarmed, I knew that I belong.
It is evening and for me autumnal. The sky offers the water a soft light, seemingly pink and grey. The water reflects this back, adding its own hint of mist. It is a tranquil scene.
For the first time this year, I feel a tug towards the Equinox, just under a month away. These canal waters are gentle, but they are drawn from the River Severn, site of the Severn Bore (1). Perhaps the waters are nudging something – maybe the water – in me.
A little later, facing into the declining sun (below) I see the sunset and its effects. I notice the concentrated power of the orb as it appears to reach the earth, and the way in which this energy disperses into the sky. The colour coding shifts from intense white to yellow to red-orange to an orange becoming increasingly grey. I live at latitude 52 north, and the sunset is getting earlier every day, now 8.15pm. Another autumnal feature.
Autumn is also the season of the fruit harvest. This year, many people are commenting that the fruit harvest is arriving early. Below, against the background of a clear blue daytime sky, an apple tree is fruiting. The tree is close to Gloucester Cathedral and may belong to it. Medieval Gloucester was a place of churches and priories. It was also a place of orchards, many of them cultivated by monks and friars. The picture points to natural and cultural continuity, though the fruit are early this year. I am no longer at a point tension between seasons. I am already settled in autumn.
(1) The Severn Bore is a natural tide phenomenon occurring in the River Severn in England, where a large wave surges upstream. It’s caused by the Atlantic tide pushing into the Bristol Channel and funneling it into the narrowing Severn Estuary, creating a more powerful wave that can be up to two meters high and a speed of up to 21 km/h. The Bore travels up the Severn Estuary, from Awre to Gloucester, a distance of 25 miles. It is strongest in the equinoxes (especially spring) and a popular challenge for surfers, kayakers and paddleboarders.
Richard’s Wood, Alney Island, was planted in 1983. It commemorates the 500th anniversary of the Charter given to the people of Gloucester by King Richard III. He was their Duke before he became King. People here have never quite seen him as the stage villain portrayed by William Shakespeare. Or, if so, as only one Royal stage villain among others.
Three years ago I wrote an Alney Island post where I ended by criticising how Richard’s Wood has been developed and managed (1). I don’t think I was wrong, but this time I felt very different, less willing to judge.
It was a hot day. I wanted to be outside. Being under cover in a wood not hard to negotiate was ideal. I strolled into enchantment. I surrendered to the trees and the way in which, together, they covered and held me.
In this state of attention, I don’t think much about botanical facts or lore. I respond to shape, texture, smell, subtle sounds, colour, light, light, shade and wonder at Nature’s variety.
I spent longer in the wood than I expected. I relished every moment I was there. I am now a friend of this space and expect to visit more often.
It is a little after 7 pm, and the mellowing evening of a hot day. The sky is clear. On 12 July, there are still nearly two and a half hours before sunset. It is about 31C/87.8F with a light breeze. Elaine and I feel comfortable enough to go for a walk in town.
We start quietly in our own neighbourhood. We are, we think, towards the end of a hot period that peaked at 35C/95F. This counts as serious heat in England. For several days, we have been staying indoors for much of the day. There have been quick forays in the mornings, mostly to an air conditioned shopping centre nearby.
We needed to get out at the first opportunity. We are rewarded, in this evening, by a freshness grown unfamiliar, and by powerful contrasts of light and shade as seen in the priory ruins below.
To leave our Greyfriars estate, we walk down a narrow lane that separates a pub from a church. We enter Southgate Street in the old town through an archway. Entering the street, we are conscious again of vivid blue sky, and the mix of sunlight and shadow. The street is hardly crowded, but it is certainly peopled on this warm summer evening.
At this stage we are not sure of our destination. We just want to be free and mobile and outdoors. We decide to turn right. Soon we will be reaching the cross roads at the centre of the old town. If we turn left, we will find ourselves in Westgate Street*, with the Cathedral Close (College Green) as our likely destination.
Gloucester Cathedral, and in particular College Green, are a friendly space for us. It is still the dominant set of buildings in the town centre, just a little set apart from the shopping streets. Often a busy place, it is also a contemplative one. As we sit there enjoying the opportunity to be out, we notice that the temperature is cooling as we move towards 8 pm.
Eventually we decide to return home, leaving College Green through another alley, this one a location for shops and restaurants. It’s been a nurturing time in the high summer city.
When Gloucester was first established by the Romans in 97 AD as Colonia Glevum, it was built as a walled city with gates in each of the four cardinal directions. Hence the streets Eastgate, Southgate, Westgate and Northgate. I believe that Aethelflaed, Lady of Mercia, brought the street names back into use in their English form whilst based in Gloucester round about 900 AD.
Contemplative Inquiry 