Look at how beautiful Woodhill is. When we arrived it was already four, and the grey sky was already beginning to darken. There was a sign saying the path was closed to the public because of filming, but Vincent charged past it, and I gingerly followed. (As much as I enjoy rebelling against things, I am a natural rule-follower.) As soon as we got into the forest, I started to feel a bit scared, and entertained all thoughts of being attacked or getting lost. The air smelt like damp dirt, and the path was littered with pinecones. Vincent peed standing on one leg on top of a tree stump. I thought about The Road Not Taken, and how although I'm pretty sure the yellow wood Frost walked in was lush green, that this is what mine would look like; moody and uncertain. And that my road would have sand dunes so steep I would walk almost parallel with the sand, but that the view from the top would be beautiful.