13October2025 Diary
Ive been wandering through the New Forest for hours now. Theres a comfort in the hush, the scent of pine needles, the crisp air and the chatter of the skylarks. It feels like a private world until a sharp crack of twigs snaps behind me.
I spin around, heart in my throat, and see a line of wolves slipping out from the birches. At least eight of them, grey silhouettes gliding over the fallen leaves, drawing ever closer. At first I think theyre merely passing, but then I realise theyre heading straight for me.
A cold dread settles in my chest. I dash for the nearest oak, my rucksack slipping from my shoulders and landing in the undergrowth. I cling to the bark, pulling myself upward as my hands shake. The wolves encircle the tree, their low growls merging into a single, terrifying chorus. One of the beasts leaps, bites the heel of my boot and drags me down. I scream, wrench myself free, but I barely stay on my feet. My pulse pounds as if it might burst from my ribs.
I know I cant hold out long. My mobile lies in the bag, and help is miles away. Then, from deep within the woods, a sound rolls like thunder through my bones a deep, resonant rumble, not a wolfs bark but something older, as if the earth itself were speaking.
The wolves freeze, ears pricked, bodies tense. For a heartbeat the shadows shift, and a massive form steps onto the clearing.
A bear, lumbering slowly, confidence in each measured step, stops a few yards from the pack and lets out a roar that shakes the leaves and startles the birds from the branches. The wolves snap back, one tucking its tail, another backing away, and within seconds the whole pack disappears into the thicket as if it had never been there.
The bear remains, eyes fixed on me. The look is heavy, not angry, merely attentive. We stare at each other for a few lingering seconds before the creature turns, pads softly into the forest and melds with the trees.
An old man, perched on a low branch, watches without moving. He survived because another predator intervened. When the fear eases, I climb down, retrieve my pack and glance in the direction the bear vanished.
Thank you, I whisper.
The forest is silent save for the wind rattling the branches and, far off, the mournful hoot of an owl.
Since that day I return often, leaving a slice of crusty bread and a spoonful of honey on the clearing. When the mist rolls over the ground, I swear I can feel warm, knowing eyes watching from the treeline.
Perhaps it was just chance. Or perhaps, in those woods, someone or something truly looks after me.
