The Plantation, East Stoke, after the storm, visions of Narnia ...

I'd been full of nervous excitement at the prospect of the coming storm - I imagined waking to news of fallen trees, paralysed malls - 

I'd stood, outside, under the dark turbulent sky - gusts of wind were shaking the pines - icy rain swept over lichened gravestones - rooks were black whirling snowflakes - I could taste salt in the seething air - 

Next morning, the rain had stopped - in my dreams, I'd flown over the Purbeck Hills, danced upon the weather vane of Lady Saint Mary - 

We walked, with Penny, to the Plantation - the wind was still strong - tall trees swayed from side to side - fallen branches lay tangled in glistening bracken - we ducked under toppled pines - 

The trackways through the plantation were slippery with churned mud, clasping our Wellingtons -

I was reminded of Pauline Baynes' illustration in The Last Battle - the noble talking horse has just been rescued from the hateful Calormene by Tirian and the unicorn, Jewel - 

There were the fragile, trees - there was the woodland road, terrible with its sucking mud - 

I touched a half severed branch - I could see the three figures from the story, bright shapes flickering into this pale world -