Seeing a stag at Arne

We often go for walks in the RSPB reserve at Arne - you see grave twitchers with powerful binoculars - they have cameras with monstrous lenses - they sit, frozen, in the hides, looking for the beautiful elusive birds -

The reserve is reached by a narrow lane, with passing places - you go though heathland, with rough pasture, gorse bushes and dark woodlands -

Once at the reserve, you walk up a slope between noble trees, entering a place where your cares are taken away - you see birch trees, like shining white wands - huge oaks, with anguished branches, frame views of silent fields, with grazing deer - you catch glimpses of the creeks and marshy borderlands of Poole Harbour -

In the summer, you can walk in a field planted with sunflowers - the huge yellow flowers are like spooky radar dishes, listening for the voices in the air -

Then, suddenly, you may come across a stag, motionless in the bracken, almost invisible - you will catch sight of its antlers, its impassive gaze -

This happened to us - we were walking back from Shipstall Point, thinking of toast and crosswords - there was the stag, only a few feet away from the path -

We were, I think, perhaps a little afraid - the powerful creature stared at us - I could see, very clearly, how sharp its antlers were - they were like spears with cruel, whitened, points -

I thought of the wild hunt - how the woods would echo with cries of horses and hunting horns -

I'd just been reading Alan Garner's The Moon of Gomrath - I knew that the old magic was still here - it all depended on how closely you looked -