Roots Older Than Memory

A small autumn escape to O Caurel gave me this scene.

In the middle of the forest stood a majestic chestnut tree — ancient, powerful, its bark covered in deep knots that told stories far older than mine. Judging by the thickness of its trunk, this was no young sapling but an old guardian of the woods.

Its roots, thick and muscular, emerged from the earth in places, wrapped in bright green moss made even richer by the constant rain and humidity. All around, a countless scatter of autumn leaves painted the forest floor in warm reds and ochres.

A thin veil of mist drifted between the branches, softening the grey day and giving the whole place a quiet, cinematic mood.

And there, in that silence, the tree felt almost alive — like one of Tolkien’s Ents standing still, watching, waiting.
For a moment, it truly felt like I was walking through Fangorn.