Experiencing the Trees

Its trees that I`m captivated by, yes, quite besotted if I am honest. Trees in general of course and the more native they are, the better. There are three in particular though that really hold my affection. This fine trio stand together in my garden where I planted them over twenty-five years ago. I see and admire them every day, whether from the house or by getting right up close. But I`ll come back to them in a minute or two.

The first clear memory I have of any particular trees is of some that grew in my grandparent`s garden up in Speyside, back in the day. As a child, I may not have admired them aesthetically, because they were there for one purpose; to be climbed, simple as that. Imagine if you will, the thrill of grabbing that first branch, the start of an upward journey, hand over hand, feet carefully positioned, up into a place of adventure. A place that adults did not go, it was a place for child-borne dreams. The higher I got into the upper branches, the greater the sense of daring anticipation. Risk assessment such as it was, amounted to not much more than how much the branches could sway backwards and forwards, or even side to side, without my falling off. On the few occasions when the ground did come up to meet me faster than I`d anticipated, the one hope in the landing, was that no one was watching, so bruises apart, no loss of dignity or bravado.

Years passed and I somehow took to admiring the trees more objectivley, through the seasons, the evolving patterns of colours and shades in the round, snow, frost, winds and stillness too. Sounds and smells, plus the delights of shuffling fallen leaves at my feet. I began to see their place in the landscape too and how this shaped its form. A single tree, an avenue, a vast forest, and all of the hope in a four-leafed seedling; each contributing so much to what we see and enjoy on a day out. We judge it too. I watched to my horror what is now referred to as the second clearances in the vast evolving purely commercial forests of the southwest, where a whole way of life was being obliterated. But with this otherwise grim scenario, came the thrills of forest roads and being able to get into places with the thrill of two wheels, that would otherwise have been impossible. To add to this, I slowly became aware of the changes wrought over the centuries, by sheep, deer, shipbuilding needs, charcoal, climate change and so many other factors. To turn the clock back on all or any of these influences is surely the big challenge today. One thing that emerged in my slowly developing knowledge of all this was that it was not only about trees but about wildlife too. Let the trees flourish, and wildlife will readily return. Trees, in that context, are a means to an even greater end.

Going back a bit, planting trees had become a popular thing to encourage and enable, volunteers to do. All of the conservation and environmental organisations were in on the act, and quite rightly so. The scope for involving young people in this was only inhibited, it would seem, by insurance limitations. Yes insurance, god help us. Some determined organisations found a way through this bureaucratic or stunted thinking though, and got even younger folk started with spade, stake and young hearts. The educational potential in actually doing, as opposed to purely classroom-based learning, took hold. The other ingredient and outcome was the concept of having fun together in the process, with all of the benefits that brought. This has all come a very long way over the past forty-plus years, and it's my pleasure to have played a modest part in it.

Some of the experiences in this stand out both for their potential sylvan beauty, and what they somehow gave to their setting; much is very personal, and others are a bit more organisational.

There`s the beech tree I'd grown from seed and then planted out as a sapling at the bottom of my in-law's garden through in the west. Its standing there now, some four decades later, giving real natural articulation to a large area of back greens, the living breathing centrepiece in an otherwise treeless roughcast concrete rectangle. Even the silent chimney pots around are now diminished by a great big beech tree; a haven for wildlife. I doubt if this would have happened by any official action.

Then there`s all the trees that were so carefully rooted in, staked and protected by the groups of young people I accompanied on so many conservation ventures everywhere from Wales to Orkney, Rhum to Aberdeenshire, and many places in between, in a personal passion so freely shared. Whether those young people will remember this tree-planting effort or not is uncertain, but it will have cast its hues on their journey into adulthood, for sure. It may also have answered, hopefully provoked a few questions along the way foreby. Friendships will have been made among the mud and laughter, with spade in hand. Wildlife and some hard-to-measure human growth will be the enduring beneficiaries of all this youthful endeavour. Now that really is hard to beat.

The macro argument about the need for trees is global, and more locally there are compelling statistics to support it. I'd like to think that I do my bit to foster this pretty urgent cause, even yet. Everything from wildlife to mental health, and the air we breathe, need more trees. Not the ranks of Sitka marching across the hillside, taking everything and giving almost nothing. It’s the native species that I seek, please, my gratitude will ensue, in abundance.

There was one place though in which I found that tree planting was strongly opposed. I`d suggested, whilst working in my professional role in an area of multiple deprivation, that it might be a good idea, blithely believing that at the very least it would soften the landscapes. But the local people were having none of it. Their reason: child molesters hide in wait behind trees. End of conversation.

When I bought the very derelict Niddry Castle back in the early 80s with a view to restoring it, the surrounding area had been rough grazing for many decades and was then being converted into a golf course. The relatively small plot of land that went with the castle had just one hawthorn and three elders forlornly clinging on in hope. So I started planting where I could, without hampering the restoration and archaeology that went with it. It was all a bit random, as what was planted rather depended on what was available, gratis. Look at it today though, and it is as if an ancient stone castle has sprouted up amid a bit of fine mixed, mature woodland. Mission accomplished!

There are so many stories or hints that seem to emerge in this seventy-plus-year personal journey of experiences with trees. Fascination as I stood in the cleft in the rocks in Berriedale on Hoy, beneath that canopy of a woodland that stretches back till just after the end of the last ice age. A continuity of small trees that have somehow defied the elements and animals for all that time. As I look at a map and see so many place names that are based on references to trees from days of yore. There`s both landscape change and social history relating to trees all closely bound up in these mysterious Gaelic or Norse words. The bog oak provocatively sticking out of a peat hag, also suggests a story of habitat evolution over many millennia. Oh, and our understanding of earlier climate change is enriched by analysis of those growth rings in a piece of wood. There`s a hundred and one other stories of trees where these ones came from; a whole book could so easily emerge.

In my second novel, I used the image of an ancient stone carving of a bunch of acorns as the stimulus for what became a sequence of dramatic action, adventure and rediscovery; even a bit of conflict too. It all provided a sense of reclaiming an ancient wisdom bound up in the Darrach Stane; darrach being none other than the oak, revered as it was by those who were perhaps more in tune with nature than we are, for all our supposed sophistication.

But back to my own three trees in the garden. The centrepiece is a rowan, and it was here before I started on the tree-planting frenzy. It needed attention though, and that made me anxious. Having grown as a tall single quite slender trunk, it risked not being able to support the foliage above. Now rowans are full of ancient superstations and symbolism: to fell or damage a rowan would surely visit harm upon the culprit, or so the saying goes. Could I risk that? I had a dilemma though, for to do nothing might well seal the tree`s fate, in due course. So I took a deep breath with saw in hand and reduced it in height very significantly. I waited anxiously and hoped. To my delight, the following spring, at least half a dozen strong shoots appeared just below where my action with the saw had left its mark. Now, today, it is a fine specimen, spreading, flourishing, taking in the seasons, and drooping with the load of red adding a blast of colour to the scene. Birdlife loves that rowan, as they dart in and out of its cover, or rest amongst the branches. The wren may be the smallest, but its song out sings all others.

To the left of this, is a silver birch, stretching year on year ever more skywards. It is a good weathervane too, as it tells so clearly the wind direction: nature with nature. Intriguingly its autumn leaves seem to turn colour from the bottom up, unlike some of its neighbours here. Even on the dullest winter`s day, there is brightness and light in the bark upon its soaring trunk. One of my pleasures is to lie down on the grass below, to watch and listen. With even the slightest breeze I see, and almost feel, the upper branches and foliage moving, swaying this way and that, so gracefully. The backdrop to this experience is the sight of puffy clouds moving across the sky above. It is the tree that gives the measure of this movement though. And I hear the leaf music as the foliage rustles showering me with the sounds of nature`s abundance.

The third tree in this sylvan triumvirate is a spreading beech. I wish the birds could tell us what it means to them, but as they dart in and out, and use the branches to roost, I sense something good. It’s a fine example of its species, it whispers a story of the seasons so vividly, and eloquently. It pulls me in, nearly always with even the slightest movement, it betokens nature`s fullness. Each morning I must experience the trees, and so the base of the beech is the most accessible for this. Reverently making my way down the garden, step by step, I draw close, throw my arms around it and hug this great specimen. I feel the firmness of the trunk, and the texture of the bark. If there is wind, the movement is carried almost down to the roots where I`m standing. There is sap rising silently within, so I imagine its flow from the soil below right up to the topmost twigs. Pressing my ear to the trunk my own heartbeat echoes back to me somehow. The tree is truly alive, and I can feel my synergy with it; life is so much fuller from this powerful experience.

I know this personal human experience or endeavour is but a passing footnote to the abiding saga of the trees. Whilst this may be so, it puts my brief term into focus and can never ever be complacent about it. We have over many eons been the bringers of destruction, wittingly or unwittingly, so there`s a job to be done in righting the wrongs we have inflicted upon nature.

My dream is that we will redouble our efforts in facing up to this compelling obligation. It should not be left to the few but embraced wholeheartedly by all. There`s a myriad of ways in which we can each play our part, and if we do, countless future generations will reap the benefits of our endeavours for nature and human well-being, as one.

Experiencing the trees will grow, abundantly.