This weekend I was round a fire in the middle of a wood in Gloucestershire with a group of other women. There were wild boars and spiders in the wood, in the darkness . The moon was hazy. There was drumming, rattling, songs and stories, one sung in gaelic, one by a lady in her late sixties. It does not fit with a certain controlled image I have of myself – staring into the red heat of the fire till midnight sharing the dark wood with animals and wild women – but it connects me with the dark depths of my own selves hidden in the light of day.