Last month, I wrote about the way in which stories and storytelling are at the heart of all that we do, the way we learn and what we know. I mentioned my recent relocation to the Forest of Dean and how this ‘feels like’ home, with its stories embedded in the land and landscapes all around. This month, I want to explore that a bit more, and reflect on the differences between book knowledge (what we learn from books, articles, maps, and archives – the academic view of knowledge) and lived knowledge (what we learn from living in a place, from the daily and seasonal rhythms of flora and fauna and weather and the rituals of the culture – the experience view of knowledge).
For many years I relied on the former to inform my practice, my daily life as an academic. Of course, I also relied on memory and the stories I held from my previous lived experiences in the Forest, but I spent my time immersed more in libraries than landscapes. I enjoyed this very much, and I still do. Learning new things about the history and stories and lived experiences of others is both fascinating and satisfying, and there is no doubt that this academic knowledge has deepened my understanding and love of the Forest. But while it might satisfy the mind, it doesn’t satisfy the soul.
A few days ago, on one of my many exploratory walks around the area, I came across a footpath on the edge of town, where the sidewalk ends and the Forest begins. This footpath took me past a field where an old horse looked up unconcernedly from its grazing to watch me pass, and up to the farm courtyard. This was most perplexing. I could not see where the footpath went from there, and since there was no one around to ask, I set myself down upon a wooden step that led over the fence into the horse’s meadow and thought about what to do next. The electrified fence clicked softly beside me, the sun shone down, and it was so pleasant that I did not feel any immediate need to move on.
After a while a car pulled into the yard, and so, feeling a little awkward and a little as though I should not be there, I went over to meet whoever might emerge from the car. As it turned out, this was a friendly and quite wonderful lady, about my age, who owned the farm (and the horse, whose name is Darcy). We had a nice chat about the loveliness of the Forest, and talked about the Foresters – the original Forest inhabitants whose grandparents’ grandparents’ lived here and who see even those who have lived here for ‘only a few’ generations as interlopers. But they are also the guardians of the ‘old ways’ of the Forest; the use of the commons, of free roam grazing, of community and respect for the land. She told me that there were two paths onward from the farmyard; I could go down the lane behind the farm (which she did not recommend), or I could go over the stile off to the side and carry on into the Forest. I thanked her, bade her good bye and directed my meandering along the overgrown and unruly forest path in the late afternoon shade.
A few days later, I chose to revisit a more familiar path through the Forest. There is a turn-off from the main path that I usually take, this traverses a meadow, which I understand is used for sheep grazing although I have yet to encounter these inhabitants. It is also possible to carry on along the main path, although it becomes increasingly overgrown beyond that point. As I was in the mood for exploring, I chose the second option. I soon found that this part of the path felt much older and more steeped in history. It was narrow, rocky, and on a precipitous downward slope, with old tumbledown moss-covered dry-stone walls on one side and a sheer drop on the other that could send me tumbling down into the bracken-filled valley below. Luckily, it eventually opened out onto a wider and less treacherous dirt road.
I knew about the foresters and the old ways and the sheep and the dry-stone walls from my research. But actually walking and breathing and experiencing these things is very different. The air in the Forest has a very different feel to it than the air in a library, the uncertainty and exertion of navigating a tricky forest path is very different from wandering the dusty orderly rows of a library, and the mysterious hush of the Forest where silence comes easily is of a different quality to the shushing hush of the library where silence is forced.
Musing upon all of this, it becomes clear to me that the two different environments and ways of knowing are not incompatible; each has its own charms and the discoveries made in each have their own value. Physical exertion and mental exertion are both necessary and both are satisfying, if in different ways. And on balance, I am grateful that I had the opportunities to explore the Forest in books, to nourish my mind and deepen my knowledge. I am even more grateful that I now get to nourish my soul, to deepen my knowing and to truly experience the Forest itself.
