Month November 2026

The lantern I've hung on a tree spreads a faint orange glow in the clearing but there's not enough light for my eyes to pick out any details; with my head torch turned off, I can barely see the pasta in my bowl. Beyond my circle of light, the world quickly fades into near total darkness. If I concentrate, I can make out the outlines of trees around me, compact shadows silhouetted against the night sky. Without the distractions of modern life, you become more aware of the sounds around you, and the forest is surprisingly loud; the rustle of leaves, the creaking of branches, the chirping of birds or insects, and the sudden screech of what must be monkeys, off in the distance. I know there's nothing to be afraid of, but I get startled all the same. I've got a fire going but it's not for warmth nor for cooking. It's there because it's supposed to be there. I can't rightly tell if it's some kind of cultural imperative, or if it's an instinct from somewhere deep within me - perhaps a bit of both - but as soon as I arrived at this spot, with my backpack and my tent, I knew in my bones I would need to light a fire. No matter the reason for lighting it, the old magic (if you can call it that) is working, by its very presence, the fire is making me feel secure. It's strange to think about, I'm not easily scared, and I normally don't mind being alone, but coming out here to spend the night on my own - there's no one around for miles - has filled me with unease and I find myself feeling lonely in a way I haven't felt for many years. The fire washes away the unease and makes the vastness of the forest feel less overwhelming. I can sit here watching the dancing flames, listening to the crackling logs, knowing that everything will be fine.