As I ran through the dew-covered grass, I looked into the distance to see the small cluster of trees that acted as my sanctuary.

The sun beamed down on the four or five small trees, providing the perfect shaded paradise.

As the painful effects of a stitch began to kick in, I was forced to slow down to a gentle jog, then to a walk, but this did not bother me, as it gave me a chance to soak in the beautiful atmosphere.

It was early morning, around eight o'clock, and the sun was just rising on what was already a lovely spring day. The dew on the grass slowly seeped its way through my canvas shoes and onto my socks, causing a satisfying squelch with every step, but I didn't mind - I would take my shoes and socks off and roll up my trousers once I arrived at the copse.

On my back was a light satchel, containing some sandwiches - egg and cress, home made of course - and my pen and journal.

This small wood was the perfect location to get away from it all and concentrate on my writing. Writing was my one escape from the hurt and pain of the real world.

When I wrote, I could create wonderful lands where there was nothing to fear, or I could create characters who shared my problems, so I'd never feel alone.

Writing was as much a sanctuary for me as was this wonderful wooded paradise.

The End

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