Get Naked in a Forest at Night

The title above might create the impression that I’m the type of girl who connects with my chakras and burns incense in my bedroom. I’m not, promise.

I’m the girl in your office, the one who reads a book in a coffee shop and smiles as you pass.

BUT I happen to live around the corner from an ancient Irish forest that has a habit of calling out to me at night. So, around 11 pm I slip on some music and slam the front door, striding into the night where I know my forest is waiting for me, open-palmed and slightly eery.

My music choices range from cheesy pop to obscure Chopin violin concertos. That time of night the forest is deserted and asleep, so I dance, skip and sing to myself. I don’t take a torch, as I can walk that familiar path with my eyes closed.

A few months into lockdown due to Covid, I found myself alone in the forest on a warm summer's evening. I felt unsettled- mulling over some of the risks I had taken that left me vulnerable. As I walked with my hands in my pockets it started raining; a warm shower that made my dress cling to my legs.

Rain in Ireland is gentle and persistent, a slow dripping from the heavens that makes the trees glisten and whisper. It's not called The Emerald Isle for nothing - the beauty of that lush green forest is created by a slow drizzle that soaks you to the skin.

A song started playing on my AirPods called “Little Star” by Stina; a Norwegian songbird with a spacious voice that somehow echoed in my soul that night.

Without thinking, I swerved off the beaten track and picked my way deeper into the trees, where I knew low hanging branches trailed into the river.

When I reached a secluded spot on the riverbank, the smell of rain and the leaves felt decadent and raw. My mind relaxed and took a back seat, so my body made the call. To flood out all thought and just feel.

My hands moved of their own accord. I took the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head. Stepped out of my underwear.

I have always had something that pushes against convention. That desire to scream in a library, walk on the grass. I had sex for the first time on the roof of my university library, overlooking my home town at night.

So as I stood on the river bank, with black mud oozing between my toes, I felt enveloped and alive. The wind in my lungs, the river in my veins and the sky in my eyes.

I put my hands over my breasts and looked up at the stars, thinking of all the thousands of people who had walked here before me. The Celtic druids chanting in prehistoric times, modern humans with their dogs and AirPods. We were part of the forest and always will be.

There was nothing sexual about it. It was primal. Animalistic. Not for the first time, the forest felt like a womb.

I know there may be protestations about safety for what I’ve done. But the fear of woods and the dark is a trope pushed by horror movies. Statistically, the unsafest place for a woman is in her own home, with family members, usually accompanied by alcohol.

The real world scares me, not fantasy fears in a forest at night.

So, when the opportunity presents itself and you hear the call of the wild, howl back. You get to walk this earth only once, let the wind kiss your naked body.

The night will never tell.