I am walking down the steep-sided valley through dense tangled trees towards the beach at Peppercombe…
Strange how my strongest impression is one of silence, when all around me is sound: the distant sea roar, the wind playing in the high canopy and around my ears, the squelch of mud and rustling of dry leaves underfoot.
I come to an old thatched cottage, and wonder if it is made of gingerbread. I am attracted by the sound of trickling water, and look down over the little stone bridge, down through the ferns, to see a stream running and sparkling over roots and stones. A woodpecker drills a nearby branch, rapping out a drumbeat that echoes throughout the entire valley.
Great moss covered branches block my path, making me stoop low as I proceed.
