The lane that climbs past the cutting is itself cut into the hill; and in the opposite bank, not far before the corner and the leftward turn for Wootton Fitzpaine, is a stair of concrete steps. Twenty-five of them. Climb them, get over the rather high stile at the top, and you jump down into a wood. A strange wood. Through the brush you think you glimpse a ruined wall: but it is the underside of a huge clod turned up by a fallen tree. There are hollows—made by other falling trees, by quarrying? Where is the path?—it's doubtful, it's overgrown. Children have become stuck in the brambles. A tree stands in mid air, on a flying ledge clad with a carpet of silky grass that pours over its edge; the cave underneath, in which the roots dangle like pillars, is certainly the home of goblins. In the light of this, other trees begin to show themselves as grotesque, as Ents. The wood is enchanted, the domain of sinister beings. You will never get out.