The autumn leaves fell to the ground as the first winter winds blustered through the trees, creating mini corkscrews of orange-golden colour on the ground. When was the last time he'd walked here? Though he remembered the idyllic scenery and frequent childhood walks, time had slipped through his hands. Those hot summer days spent swimming in the river, now they seemed so very long ago. A squirrel, desperately trying to prepare for winter, disturbed his thoughts. Its careful progress down the tree branch for a nut, only for the nut to fall, mesmerised him. He mustn't give up, he had something to do and was going to do it.

    In the clearing in front of him, the small stone bridge became visible. He stopped, held by some invisible force; he had to see the emerald water below. As he came to the edge of the bridge, there it was ebbing and flowing in an ever-repeating routine. Something was wrong; the river was trying to speak to him yet he would not listen. Too long he had spent in the concrete forest; for all youthful knowledge about Hermia was forgotten. Locals could tell you Hermia was the spirit of the Afon Teifi which ran deep into the welsh mountains and, as such, the soul of all who lived in Llanbryn. Turning his head, he resumed his quest through the syrup-coloured wood.

    Rain began to hammer down as the sky turned an unnatural black. He knew his goal must be close. Although distance didn't really seem useful, time had blurred it. Finally his Holy Grail appeared a beacon in the gloom. A small detached cottage lay nestled in to the left of the path. Parts of a dairy farm were obscured by the experienced farm machinery. Almost running now, he rushed to the thick oak door. Tapping once lightly and then a second time loudly, he waited for an answer. The door gradually opened.
"Miles" yelled the woman at the door. "Where? What? Why?" she cried, so many questions filling her head.
"No time to chat, ma please wait one moment" pleaded Miles.

    He turned from the house and ran towards the thatched cottage opposite the farm. Trees sheltered most of the cottage, like a mother tending to her child. Trying to manage all his excitement and fear, he approached the neat pine door cautiously. Once, twice, three times he knocked tenderly with the copper doorknocker. Waiting, he received no reply. Making his way around the flowerbed he peered through the wood framed windows; all that stared back were cobwebs. Behind him his mother followed.

"Miles. She died 7 months ago. Her family has since moved to the city…" her voice tailed off "I'm sorry.".

    It was then he understood, if he had only acknowledged his roots; if he had told her that she was all that mattered to him everything could have turned out so differently. He had abandoned nature and so it taunted him. Why did he never tell her?