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Those journeys are difficult, intriguing and always revealing. The writer never quite knows what he’s going to find there. All of legend is in Ryhope Wood, though often as fragments, briefly glimpsed in a glade, by a river, across a valley; most often from the corner of the eye, something half seen, which vanishes when it is gazed upon fully. All of legend: that which we remember, and most importantly: the vast amount that has been forgotten during time, because the tales faded from the oral tradition, the events, which had once burned in the story-tellers memory, have crumbled to ash.
But they are not forgotten. The wood itself remembers, and these ancient images of myth, these ‘myth-imagoes’, rise whenever a human mind becomes engaged with this oldest of woodlands.