Woodland photography is a great skill that has largely evaded me. I have huge respect for those that do it well. Where others see fascinating shapes and patterns I see nothing but chaos.

But I love woodland. I love the chaos of a woodland with dense undergrowth and fallen trees. I love the dappled light as it plays on a forest floor highlighting clusters of flowers, lichens and mosses, and I love the contrasting light and shade on the trunk of a tree.

I love the sense of tranquillity disturbed only by bird song and the sound of a gentle breeze blowing through the canopy above. In bad weather the rustling of leaves becomes the sound of a roaring ocean as the branches bend to the force of the wind. I love the fleeting glimpse of a deer, fox or muntjac as it scampers through the trees teasing me with the merest suggestion of its presence.

And I love the scent of wild garlic, of bluebells and the unmistakable smell along the spoor created by a fox in the same way as he can undoubtedly smell me. But who is tracking who?

Today I spent many hours in my favourite wood. A wood I’ve spent several years photographing as part of an ongoing project. The weather was wild as a gale blew in from the south west bringing constant fine rain in its wake. I took shelter in the wood, taking the opportunity to work on my project. I’ve no idea when I’ll finish the project.

Much depends on the work of one man as to when I will complete my work. A man of advancing years and failing health. When he’s done in the wood, I’ll publish my work. I’ve no idea how or where. I confided in him my thoughts about my project. He liked it. He confided in me the fact that when he’s done on this earth he wants his ashes to be spread in the wood. A place for which we both share a deep love. He asked if I had any photographs of the snowdrops in the wood (I do) and revealed that he had planted them many years ago. That’s where he wants his ashes to be spread.

But we both fear for the health of our wood. Amongst the oak, beech, hazel, wild cherry, hawthorn and blackthorn there are many ash. The ash is dying and will be felled. What will become of our wood?

In search of shelter on this wild and windy day I sat for an age with my back to a slender hawthorn feeling the vibrations from the wind shudder through its trunk. I listened as an unseen and unidentified bird just metres above my head shared its entire repertoire with anyone and anything that cared to listen. The most extraordinarily complex composition that no human musician could match.

But today my meditations were shattered as they sometimes are here by a menacing growl as trail bike riders interrupted the tranquillity in their leering sneering pursuit of self-gratification. Their two-wheeled masturbation. Legal rights of way are of no consequence to them as they wreak their trail of havoc and destruction. Footpaths, bridleways, restricted byways and farmers’ crops are all fair game as they scatter wildlife, farm animals, horses and pedestrians in their wake leaving a two-fingered salute to the world as they go. Eventually they departed leaving me to my thoughts, and enabling the wildlife once again to break cover.

But Springtime in many of Wiltshire’s woodlands is a time of splendour with the gradual appearance of a carpet of bluebells. I have visited a few of late trying do justice to their overwhelming presence. Each woodland I visited was different. The sheer brilliance of the early morning light in Gopher Wood contrasted with the diffused light of mid-morning caused by the merest hint of smoke from the burning of logs in a nearby woodyard at Oakfrith Wood. Meanwhile the little know copse in the moated enclosure that was once the gatekeeper’s lodge in the Bishops of Salisbury’s deer park at Potterne Wick was shared with an indignant roe deer buck. And finally to the blanket of bluebells and wild garlic offset by the skeletal trees in Bidcombe Wood. It’s impossible to decide on a favourite. I’ll leave you to decide.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do woodland photography. Maybe I’ve been doing it all the while but in my own way?