The Lilies in the Woods
(June 11, 2026)
This evening, as I often do, I followed a woodland path a few hundred metres from home.
It is one of my favourite walks in the valley. The path is not laid or maintained in any formal sense. No one designed it. No machinery cut it through the trees. It exists because people have walked this way for years, probably generations. Countless pairs of boots have passed along the same route, gradually wearing a line through the woodland floor.
Even so, few people seem to use it today.
Most visitors to Eryri pass elsewhere, leaving this quiet corner of the valley largely undisturbed.
Part of its appeal is the sense of peace. There is nowhere in particular to get to and nothing to achieve. I simply walk.
This evening, the woods felt especially alive.
Heavy rain had swept through earlier in the day, filling the streams that run through the forest. Their constant rush echoed through the trees, accompanied by birdsong and the occasional movement of leaves in the breeze. The rain had long since passed, but everything remained saturated.
The sky was overcast, spreading a soft, diffuse light through the woodland. There were no harsh shadows, only gentle tones and deep greens. The cloud seemed to act like a giant softbox suspended above the forest.
Tree trunks, rocks, fallen branches and old stonework were covered in a vibrant green carpet of moss that glowed. Ferns crowded the edges of the path, whilst foxgloves rose above them, some standing well over head height. The whole woodland floor seemed to be thriving.
It was whilst walking through this sea of green that I noticed something unexpected.
A cluster of flowers growing beneath the trees.
There were perhaps six or ten of them, their orange-yellow petals curled back upon themselves and marked with dark speckles. Droplets of rain still clung to the flowers. Each bloom hung downwards towards the woodland floor.
What struck me immediately was the colour.
Against the greens of the moss and ferns, the flowers seemed almost luminous. They stood out in a way that demanded attention.
And yet there was something else that puzzled me.
I have walked this path for seven years. In all that time, I had never noticed them before.
Perhaps they had always been there.
Perhaps this year’s conditions had encouraged a particularly strong display.
Or perhaps I had simply walked past them dozens of times without truly seeing them.
Later, after returning home, I did a little research and discovered that they were most likely Martagon (Turk’s cap) lilies, or a closely related variety. Their distinctive downward-facing flowers and recurved petals appeared to match the photographs I found.
The identification answered one question, but raised another.
How had they come to be here?
This part of the woodland is genuinely wild. Beyond the path itself there is little sign of human intervention. Ferns, mosses, streams and mature trees dominate the landscape. Yet here was a thriving cluster of lilies growing quietly beneath the canopy.
Perhaps they are the forgotten legacy of a cottage long vanished from the forest. Perhaps they were planted by someone whose name has long since been forgotten. Or perhaps they have always belonged here, unnoticed by most who pass.
The truth is that I do not know.
What I do know is that places reveal themselves slowly.
We often assume that familiarity means understanding. We walk the same paths, see the same views and convince ourselves that we know them. Yet every now and then something appears that reminds us how much remains unseen.
The lilies may have been there for years.
They may have been there every time I walked that path.
Either way, they offered a quiet reminder that even the most familiar places still hold surprises. The longer I spend in these woods, the more I find that they reveal themselves a little at a time, offering up details that were always there, waiting patiently to be noticed.
As the evening light began to fade and the streams continued their journey through the forest, I carried on towards home.
Behind me, the lilies remained amongst the ferns, their heads bowed towards the earth.
Waiting, perhaps, for the next passer-by who may, or may not notice them.
Field Notes and photographs are occasionally shared on Instagram @iamjohnrees