If Cities Could Speak

A fallen tree on the train tracks means we arrive at Walk Wood Wagon two hours late; mother nature making her power known. It’s still light though, just. We arrive at the clearing in the woods and plonk our heavy rucksacks down on the ground, taking in the sight of the black and white wagon that is to be our home for the next few days. The chimney poking out of the roof promises warmth on this February weekend in East Sussex and we’ve been assured by the owner that the small space heats up quickly once the fire gets going. There’s a deck attached to the wagon with an outdoor kitchen, a little table and two bright blue chairs that look garish against the earthy tones of the woods. The wagon is surrounded by a tangle of spindly trees that creak like an old man’s bones as they sway in the wind. There are fields visible beyond the trees too, great expanses of green that stretch out into the distance. We park ourselves on the chairs and gobble down cheap Tesco sandwiches that satiate the ap...