Among the Whispering Trees: A Morning of Forest Bathing on the Wrekin

Saturday morning, the air was cool and laced with the scent of damp leaves. Our small group gathered in a private woodland under the sheltering arms of an ancient ash tree, the place where our journey would begin. We stood together, grounding ourselves—feet firm in the soil, breathing in the quiet energy of the forest.

We began with our senses. The rise and fall of our breath, the texture of the breeze against our cheeks, the distant murmur of life among the trees. Then, we set off on the slowest of walks—fifteen unhurried minutes in which each step was deliberate, each sound magnified. The wood pigeons called in deep, echoing notes; robins trilled with clear, sweet tones; magpies clicked sharply, while crows added their gravelly voices. I even caught the faint whistling rush of wings overhead, as if the air itself were singing.

Normally, I’m one to be at the front of the pack. Yet today, I found myself in the final three, moving slower than I ever thought possible, and noticing more than I ever had before. Somewhere along the path, a filly—ridden by a graceful female rider and a curious greyhound—wandered by, pausing long enough for a quiet, shared hello. The forest seemed to hush around this magic moment.

In the distance, deer stood poised—alert and still, their great ears turning towards us. They reminded me of the forest’s deep sensitivity, of how life here listens as much as it speaks.

Towards the end of our walk, we created a forest mandala—a circle of gratitude, woven from what the land offered: leaves of deep green and faded brown, smooth stones, weathered twigs, moss like velvet. Living and once-living elements mingled in patterns only nature could inspire.

We took a sit spot, letting the forest breathe around us, and befriended a tree. Mine was tall and strong, its bark rough and warm beneath my palms. I studied its moss through a magnifying glass, saw the pale tenderness of etiolated leaves, and then—closing my eyes—hugged the tree. Somewhere in that moment, the colour in my mind shifted from deep purple to bright yellow, a warmth opening in me.

Our journey ended with a Japanese tea ceremony, sipping fragrant herbal tea as the morning light filtered through the branches. It felt less like an ending, more like a gentle return.

Forest bathing, or Shinrin-yoku, is rooted in the simple but profound idea that immersing ourselves in nature can restore us—mind, body, and spirit. By slowing down, engaging all our senses, and allowing nature to meet us on its own terms, we create space for calm, creativity, and connection to flourish.

As I left the forest, I couldn’t help but wonder: How often do we rush through life, going round the Wrekin and getting nowhere fast—when we could slow our steps, notice more, and find we’ve actually travelled further within ourselves?