At the Gate of the Otherworld: On Nature, Naming, and the Art of True Enchantment
As I stepped closer to the tiny pink bulbs, another sense was awoken by the constant vibration of hundreds of busily buzzing bees, legs laden with pollen pouches so heavy they struggled to balance. Soon I realised this magnificent tree was teeming with life. Butterfly wings fluttered, landing ever so lightly, sometimes right on top of the bees as they navigated the gathering colony. From afar, it would be easy to miss this scene entirely; a passerby might notice the bright petals, think what a beautiful spring blossom, and move on. Positioned right at the entrance to the farmhouse at Boonah, alongside the path leading up to the verandah where grand vistas of the Otway Ranges await, this tree demands a different kind of attention. To pause for these moments and savour the quiet frenzy of so many tiny creatures invites you into another world entirely.
Enchantment is often described as a state where perception is heightened and the ordinary world reveals its aliveness, meaning, and luminosity. Rooted in the Latin incantare, to chant over or cast a spell, it is less about escaping reality and more about entering an intense, participatory relationship with it. It is the feeling of being temporarily caught in a web of fascination where the boundary between observer and observed grows porous. Standing beneath the branches, time seemed to fade, leaving only a deep connection to this dynamic symbiosis, as if beckoned in by the land itself.
I recently discovered that in the Celtic mythology of my ancestors, the Crab Apple tree symbolises a gateway to the Otherworld, revered second only to the Oak. It is famously associated with the Silver Bough, a magical branch of apple blossoms carried by Faerie folk to grant passage or protection to mortals traveling into the spiritual realm. The Celts often referred to it as the Tree of Love. Druids crafted ritual wands from its wood, and the tree stood at the center of seasonal celebrations like Samhain and Wassailing, where toasts were made to banish evil spirits and protect future harvests. Traditional divination rituals even involved throwing pips into a hearth fire while naming a lover; if the pip popped in the heat, the devotion was true.
Did an awareness of this ancient lore enhance my time under the branches? One cannot be certain of such things, but the feeling was not unfamiliar here at Boonah, a landscape with its own subtle energy that entrances you the moment you arrive.
There I stood with my Canon camera in hand, waiting patiently to capture the exact second a butterfly’s wings opened to reveal a kaleidoscope of colour, only to close and transform into an entirely different pattern on the flip side. Photography is a universal passion; as humans, we long for stillness, to treasure a freeze-frame moment of sublime beauty forever. Yet striving for that perfect frame shifts our attention into something else entirely.
As I snapped photos of the different species, I caught myself already planning how to categorise them, thinking of uploading them to iNaturalist for identification. While essential for science and conservation, that analytical drive was quietly pulling me away from the lived experience of nature, away from the delicate movements of bees balancing on petals, butterflies drifting to the top branches as they swayed gently in the breeze, and the dappled play of light filtering through the foliage.
In this digital age, it is so easy to get tied up in frames of reference rather than the living tapestry of relationships themselves. My desire to freeze a single moment in time was subtly competing with the raw, emergent experience of simply being present inside it.
Stepping away from the viewfinder, I peered upward and felt the sun warm my skin. As my eyes squinted against the light, the whole tree blurred into a large, soft pink cloud, the hum of the hive a steady soundtrack, a sweet fragrance embodying this springtime moment. Turning toward the verandah, the sweeping view of the Otway Ranges came into focus.
Real enchantment doesn't require a photograph to be kept, nor the impulse to label and categorise what we see. It changes how we perceive the world long after the moment passes. The ancient Celts believed the crab apple tree was a gateway to the Otherworld, a threshold requiring a quiet kind of reverence to cross. Perhaps that threshold isn't a physical place we travel to, but a state of mind we step into when we finally drop our need to record, measure, and control. In letting go of the frame, the spell took hold. I was no longer a visitor taking inventory of a garden at Boonah, but an active participant in an ancient, ongoing conversation between blossom, bee, land, and light.
