At Hangman’s Spinney, half a mile from Deadman’s Oak, I can’t resist the imaginary gothic. The skeleton limbs of a dead tree have taken human form. Where in this wood is the gallows pole? A kite hangs overhead. What has it seen?
Such entertaining thoughts of confected terrors dissipate into the stubble of open country. Two fields later, I am descending into a shady tunnel no wider than a tube carriage, walled in by thorn and bramble.
I enter without any thought of caution, wariness or trepidation. As a 6ft male, I have no concept of what it is to fear in the British countryside – it never occurs to me to be afraid, especially early in the morning when there is nobody about. But half the population feels differently.
Partway down this corridor, I see a woman walking towards me with only a spaniel for company. I cannot cross the road or – realistically – take a diversion elsewhere to give her space. My wife has suggested I pretend to be on the phone in such situations, but my mobile is not to hand.
I make a point not to stare at her. I lower my gaze, then, as we draw close, fixate on her dog and smile at those floppy ears. As a lone male encountering a woman, I often greet the dog before the person. The moment we come face to sideways face, our eyes meet briefly, and I give her a confident, light greeting. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” A curled maple leaf is released from a branch overhead. “Autumn’s kicking in,” I say, drawing on the social norm of weather small talk. And keep moving. Stay predictable, my wife says. I’m reassured by understanding how to convey a lack of threat.
We have now passed each other. “You have a lovely day,” I call over my shoulder. “And you too,” she answers, with what sounds, I hope, like a lift in her voice. I don’t look back, and I hope she feels she doesn’t have to look back either.
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