I had one of those places in a wood behind the house I lived in when I was 14. It was county park – a large well maintained woodland. Not particularly mysterious or dangerous.
But deep inside of it was a stand of very tall pine trees, who through many years of shedding pine needles had smothered away all the underbrush. There were giant lower branches that had sagged down in spots so you had to duck under them. But once you were in there and under the pines, it was like being inside a house made by trees. I would sit down on a towel on top of the pine needles and read a book.
It was very far from the path and I got lost several times going to and coming from it. But I adored it, so I kept seeking it out.
I wish I could go to visit that magic place now. Although, I wonder if I would even be able to find it now. Or would it still be as magical? Perhaps it’s magic was connected to the person I was in those moments. A day dreamer. A awkward teenager, looking for solace. Actually. Maybe I am still the same, just change teenager to 55 year old and…