Cratloe Woods

For years, as I was dragging myself,through childhood into adulthood, Sunday mornings had a reassuring, monotonous colour to them. Stumbling out of the scratcher, in a relative state of cleanliness - due to the Saturday night ritual of bathtime - breakfast and then Mass. Our mother fed and watered us, checked that we were "presentable" which usually entailed rearranging the clothes, wiping the sticky marmalade off our ears, clearing the boogers out of our noses and then herding us out to the car where the Boss was waiting patiently. Somewhat of an ordeal for her I suspect.

Then off we tootled, en famille, to perform our Sunday duty.

The spirituality and sanctity of the whole exercise was a bit lost on me. I was much more interested in what was going on around me. Who was there, what they were wearing, who was very holy, lips moving in silent devotion, who was asleep, who was fervently running the rosary beads through their fingers at breakneck speed intent on garnering credit for the afterlife, who was glaring crossly at me for staring at them..... any bit of distraction at all was more exciting than the ancient one on the pulpit droning on, and on, and on, sometimes in Latin.

Much fidgetting, shuffling, twisting and turning later, it is over. Forty five minutes and we were well on our way to getting into Paradise.

By my mid-teens I had stopped going to Mass. My parents knew, I'm sure, that my Sunday morning excursions to "Mass" with my friends were fabrications. Not having a reasonable account to give of what the gospel was about probably gave it away. But they gave me my head. No bitter arguments, no tyrannical tirades, no fire and brimstone. Maybe they realised the futility of arguing with an angst-ridden teenager. Such wisdom.

But now I'm back at the Sunday morning ritual.

Only this time it is not a church, or a synagogue, or a temple.

It is a tract of land covered in high trees, dotted with hollies, ivies, ferns and all kinds of growing specimens that I can't put names on. Anonymous monuments to a greater power.

Now, I still stumble out of the bed, the state of cleanliness is usually passable, breakfast is skipped - a postponed pleasure - the runners are donned and off I go for my spiritual fix.

Twenty minutes later, I am there. Ready, willing and able. Spiritually speaking. Physically, I remind myself of a very old, very delapidated, Model T Ford that needs to be cranked by one of those thingies that you stick in the front and twist until the engine bursts into life. But 10 minutes of forcing one foot in front of the other up the steep hill at the start is rewarded by the familiar feeling of elation. I'm here, I'm upright, I'm moving, I'm still breathing.

And then. It is pure heaven.

The trees, tall and stately, sometimes swaying in the breeze, sometimes roaring angrily, sometimes as still as death, are always magnificent. The paths are just dirt tracks which nature endeavours to cover with cheeky tufts of grass and more sedate ferns. These paths trail through the forest like meandering ribbons, going this way and that but never leading one astray. Bit like Himself, really.

And the silence. My soul yearns for this silence.

Sometimes I go to the hills and can recall nothing of the run after the first, hard hill. I suspect my soul has left me momentarily and gone to play in the real world. I don't mind being abandoned like this because when my errant spirit does return, it is usually rejuvenated, calm and content.

It certainly beats the socks off sitting and listening to someone telling me I'm damned forever.

For whatever sins and misdemeanours I have committed.

On Sunday mornings, I feel more at one with nature and the true essence of myself. I feel, its O.K. to just be me .... warts and all.


It takes effort.

Sometimes, I really would prefer to loll on with the papers and my dreams.

But the price is too high.