By Tim Porteus

PRESSMENNAN Wood lies hidden at the foot of the northern slope of the fantastically named hill Deuchrie Dod, just a mile away from the beautiful old village of Stenton. The wood surrounds a lake of the same name, which is actually a reservoir created 200 years ago.

Pressmennan Lake is nearly 2km long and meanders through the wood, giving the appearance of a river rather than a loch. In summer, the lush canopy of trees which surround the lake can engulf the senses, and for a moment you can be fooled into thinking you are in the middle of an ancient forest.

And in a sense, you are. The wood is a fragmentary remnant of the ancient oak wood which once covered most of our county. Records show it existed in medieval times, and I’m sure well before that.

Much of it was felled, so tradition tells us, when the warship The Great Michael was built on the order of James IV around 1507. This ship was famously constructed using the oak woods of Fife, but such was the size of the vessel that wood from elsewhere was also needed, including Pressmennan.

Yet the wood seems to have survived, and in 1623 the felling of trees here is said to have been stopped due to its importance as a habitat for the king’s deer.

It remains a place rich in wildlife. Roe deer still roam free amidst the trees here. They are creatures of woodland magic, and native to these isles. They are small and nimble-footed, and will dart into the undergrowth at the sight or sound of approaching danger. They have short antlers and a tailless rear, which usually has a white patch. This is the part of the animal you most likely see, as it quickly bounds away from you.

The wood is full of other wildlife: owls and bats, hares and foxes, stoats and weasels, and, according to the Woodland Trust Scotland, who own and care for the wood, otters have also been seen in the lake. The birdlife here is likewise rich, and there is a crescendo of song in the spring. The trust acquired the wood in 1988 and is slowly restoring it to its natural character, planting oak and other native trees.

We arrived at the wood last weekend, on a day of changeable weather, but laden with the promise of spring. There is a children’s map provided by the Woodland Trust and it proved a great hit for my kids, who followed the loch-side path looking for the features identified.

These are wood carvings and sculptures made by artist Robin Wood. Part of the trail includes doors and windows in the trees which are said to be the homes of magical creatures called the Tootflits and Glingbobs.

My children, well-versed in the folklore traditions of our county, know all about faeries, brownies, selkies, kelpies, witches and wizards. But Tootflits and Glingbobs were new to them, and to be honest myself as well.

They are mythical creatures created by the artist and trust to provide a sense of wonder and adventure for children as they explore the wood. You can search for their homes and the wood sculptures along the way.

And so we set off on our adventure of discovery. The path by the riverbank needs care with wee ones when wet, but it whispers magic. Ancient oak trees line the banks of the lake, their branches dipping into the water.

These old trees were still leafless, biding their time for the arrival of spring proper. But they were a spine-tingling sight, a reminder of what once was here in abundance. But then, as we ventured deeper into the wood, we made a less pleasant discovery.

Some people had decided it was a good idea to hammer coins into the sculptures, and even into the living trees. We found the homes of the Tootflits, and at their door was a pile of rusting coins which had clearly been left as a gift or good luck charm. Rusting coins also lay all around the base of the tree.

I understand the desire to leave a gift or charm for a magical creature, but polluting and damaging nature with the ultimate symbol of materialism was, for me, horribly ironic.

We removed what we could, and my daughter Skye searched for a more suitable gift. She found a small ‘faerie cup’, which was the cupule of an acorn, and placed it on the doorstep.

“There,” she said, with a sense of satisfaction.

We continued our search but we found every sculpture defaced in the same way. One had actually collapsed due to the splintering and rot caused by the coins being hammered into it.

The final sculpture was a frog on a log. It too was peppered with coins hammered into its body. In the universal measure of things, this damage was insignificant and perhaps even well-meaning, for I assume it was done by people who came to enjoy the wood and merely wanted to leave their charm here.

But even if there was no malice, it was a desecration. Then my heart tore as I watched my children scrape their fingers as they tried to pull the coins from the poor creature. But they were mostly rusted and too well-embedded.

As we left the wood, I was reminded of a famous quote, attributed to the Native American chief Seattle: “Take only memories and leave only footprints.”

The word ‘photos’ is often used instead of memories but the message is the same, and now more powerful than ever. It’s a worldwide issue – the desecration of natural sites by people who unthinkingly want to leave their mark. The coins that weren’t rusted we put in a charity box.

The experience affected my daughter.

“Can you write about what we found, dad, and ask people not to do that?” said Skye at bedtime. “Ask them to find presents in nature, like faerie cups or stones or fallen branches or pine cones or berries, or even make a love heart shape in the ground. Faeries don’t like metal anyway or need money.”

And I promised her I would. As she slept, I kept my promise.