I found myself in a wood of hawthorns, and among the densely grown trees was a pathway with branches above it and roots below it, yet at the other end I could see the clear blue sky with light clouds passing across it.
I followed the path climbing over crowded roots, surrounded on all sides by spiky branches with hawthorn’s unique characteristic dark green leaves. The hawthorn fruit, the haw, hiding secretly below them.
At the other end of the road is a hill, and on that fairy hill is my cottage, a thatched hovel really. One room, with roughly hewn work tables, herbs hanging from every possible hook or niche. I have a three pronged stang made of the hawthorn and shoed with coffin nail. Carved all along the body of the stang are hawthorn blossoms, haws, spikes and leaves. I’ve a copper knife with a white antler handle and I chop herbs I have found and grown in the hedges.
If I lie my head down on my pallet right on the earth, I can hear them in their hill. The Sidhe. They sing, they work, they play, just as I do in my house on the hill.