Wild rose thorns and sharp needles on scrub guard the land. At the end of the first day of trail marking when I didn't know enough to bring along a pair of gloves, my hands looked like they'd lost a fight with an ornery alley cat.
In the summer the grass stood tall and swayed in the wind. In the autumn, the grass, soft, fat and still green from the generous November rain, has fallen into big bundles and so I sit down on them, close my eyes and lie back. Ten thousand strands of grass keep me afloat. I hear a dog barking across the wind. I open my eyes towards the sky.