Big forest Picnic story writing winners revealed!

After weeks of cogitation, deliberation and rumination, staff from the WWF and VisitWoods can reveal the winners of the Big Forest Picnic story writing competition.

We received a huge number of entries and thank you to every one of you that took part, we had great pleasure in reading them all!

Congatulations to the winners, who are as follows:

16 and under:

Aoife Troxel, County Galway, Ireland

It was dusk and a strange orange light flickered through the forest. All day the loud moan of a chainsaw had been echoing through the branches, broken only by the dull thump of a tree dying. In the heart of the wood the trees stood haphazardly around an old oak. Flanking this core were ranks of solemn pines standing stiffly erect. A breeze sent waves of creaking and swaying rippling through each straight line of these soldiers. It was this plantation that the chainsaw had been decimating.

The conifers grew fast and slim and they brought in a small profit. But the hoary oak was a massive and formidable opponent. Chestnut, beech, and larch clustered around it like a group of advisors. Every day the chainsaw cut closer to the oak, slicing through the files of protectors with ease. When the light finally began to recede the whole forest breathed a sigh of relief. The tense upright trees shifted and settled.

Today the chainsaw had come nearer than ever before. A clear path was visible leading straight to the oak. Everything before it had been sawn away. The silence was briefly broken by the engine of a car, the same that brought the chainsaw away each evening. There was no hope of it staying away. By morning it would be back, vying with the dawn chorus. It never lost.

Venus hung over the forest like a lantern tonight. It was unusually bright and all but the farthest reaches of the forest were illuminated. As the sky became sprinkled with stars, trees groaned and knocked together. The oak, however, grew sturdy and thick. Even the strongest gust of wind merely caused some acorns to drop. The tree had not moved in fifty years.

Tonight was different. The knotted and bulbous bark of the trunk strained with effort. Dirt burst from its base as thick roots emerged. Carefully they crept forward. The giant tree lurched, supported by the heaving mass of roots. The trees in its path somehow managed to move aside as the oak surged deeper into the remaining forest. The trees in its wake stood at attention. Although the wind was gaining momentum, they did not sway or creak.

Finally the oak stopped. The writhing nest of roots began to burrow. Shortly the tree towered tall and full, rooted as though it had grown from that very spot. The path hewn by the chainsaw ran through the forest behind it like a scar. It turned into a trail of overturned earth at the point where the ancient oak had once stood. The oak was still exposed; still the object at the end of a trail, and it would be dawn soon.

The wind had grown softer and it rustled among the leaves as one by one the trees began to shuffle forward. The only sign of the old oak was a ring of acorns, arranged as though it had rained from the tree but with only dirt at its centre.

Aoife will be the proud recipient of vouchers for 10 books of her choice.

17 and over:

Ceri Neil, Slough, Berkshire

It had always been his single most favourite moment of the year; of every year, in fact.

He would pick the perfect day - an autumn day; a clear, dry day with blue skies and just the slightest scattering of clouds - and in late afternoon off we would go, father and son together, to the forest.

We had our own special spot under the pines, where the trees thinned and the forest floor sloped down towards the lake. From there we had the perfect view of the blue waters and the forest on other side, which rose steeply from the shoreline in a patchwork of crimsons, coppers and burnt umbers. And there we would huddle together in a blanket, on a bed of needles and moss, and wait.

We would wait while the sun slipped down in the sky and her weakening rays filtered through the branches above us, so that they fell on us like magical silver ribbons. We would wait while she edged closer and closer to the horizon. And we would wait for the world to go still.

And then there came the moment; the moment she would, in one final, extravagant gesture, throw open her arms and pour out her liquid rose gold across the sky. The clouds would rush in to soak up their share, but the abundant overflow would run down the opposite hillside setting the whole forest ablaze and transforming the lake into a bowl of swirling precious metals.

In that moment Dad would squeeze my hand and I would become the richest person on earth.

Of course, this didn’t continue much beyond my teens. I went off to University and returned to the inevitable demanding career and hefty mortgage, and when my own family came along the pressure of providing meant longer and longer hours in the office. There was quite simply no time left for the forest.

He said he understood.

He said he was proud of my achievements and how much I put into my work. He said he fully appreciated how stressful it all was for me.

So why then had it been his dying wish - the very last thing he thought of - that I should go back there?

What was I doing sitting in a blanket, under the pines on the slope above the lake, with my suit carefully folded up in my car and a hundred million emails building up in my inbox?

Why was I there witnessing this most exuberant display of nature when he would never do so again?

I just didn’t understand.

Until I felt a small hand squeeze my own, and the fire reflected in my small son’s eyes burn away the tears from my own.

Then I understood.

And from now on we will go back often to the forest.

Ceri will receive an Amazon Kindle.

Find out more about the Big Forest Picnic and FSC sustainability