The vast landscape stretched out before me in verdant green. Soft, billowing clouds punctuated the sky like tufts of fleece against a canvas of serene azure blue.

The castle stood in the middle, a humble structure steeped in rich history, inviting children to run around, pretending to be knights and princesses.

A father uncoiled a kite while his excitable red-haired daughter bounced up to get it going. Enthusiastic barking threaded through the scene as a Border Collie playfully chased a Cocker Spaniel, rolling around and leaping up to catch a stick that had been thrown. More dogs bounded across the stretch of grass, sniffing one another, and basking in the sunshine that poured down. Their owners mingled around, laughing, with poo bags dangling from their hands like accessories.

Lanky trees, bushy trees, and short and stubby trees gathered in community at the far edge, welcoming walkers in for a quiet, shady stroll where wildlife whispered stories and sang songs.

I sat on a thick log, touching the damp bark, under a tall beech tree where two handmade wreaths were snugly positioned between its nurturing branches. There was a note in one.

For all the memories these hills gave me and my friend during the Pandemic. For all the walks and laughs, and for all the encouragement when the world turned upside down and our jobs at the hospital became more than just jobs. When my hands were red raw, my sleep was non-existent, and my family life became so distant: these hills were our refuge. The Pandemic had become part of our history, a tale that felt distant, yet these landscapes remained present and more than just landscapes; they continued to be our place of refuge. Thank you.

Tears spilt down my cheeks as I stared down at my hands, now soft, pale, and a little aged, remembering the time when mine were red raw as I worked in the NICU. Hearing cries from heartbroken mothers who couldn’t bring their husbands in with them, pressing down the pump of hand sanitiser and feeling the sting in cuts, watching tiny chests rise and fall and staring into their eyes as they stared back at a woman in a mask and goggles. 

I took a breath, exhaling slowly, as I started to feel that immense pressure returning from being on high alert 24/7.

Giggling children ran out from the woods, and their Golden Labrador whizzed past them. 

I smiled, grateful that we’d come out of it, and grateful for all these beautiful landscapes that had given people so much hope, encouragement, and light.