It's not a forest in the classic, fairy tale sense, but a neighbor has gone to the trouble of printing up a green sign that says "Folkstone Forest" and hung it from a branch, so who am I to contradict?
The little trail I take is lined with fallen logs and dignified by a small plank bridge. But by this point in my walk I'm ready to be home. The playlist is winding down, the work is waiting. So of course it's then, when I'm not paying attention, that I run across the tiniest little nub of a tree stump.
Can I tell you how many times this stump has tripped me up? Too many to count. So now I look for it. I check out the smooth dirt path for the aberration, the knob. It's become a game for me, to find the stump before it stumps me. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. The stump keeps me humble.