I’ve written about my fear of fallen trees before, but that was several years ago and on a different blog. Why am I afraid? What is it about the tree being in this state that triggers this fear? If I’m not afraid of standing trees, why be afraid of ones lying on the ground? I think it comes down to two things…

There is a phenomenon known as ‘megalophobia’, which is basically the fear of big things. Now I know it can seem like there’s a phobia of everything these days, but I have long felt uneasy when close to large structures, both natural and manmade, so finding there’s a name for this reaction is helpful for me. I suddenly realise I’m not the only one, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call my feelings a phobia.

I love trees (you may have noticed). They fill me with an interesting mixture of peace and awe. Yet I can’t deny the faint niggles I feel deep in my gut when I approach a giant. And I’m aware that, by tree standards, these aren’t really giants that we have in the UK! The feeling is the same as that I experience when up close to a large statue. It’s fear, but of what? If I pull on those little threads and unravel my fear, I find at its core a visualisation of the object leaning over and toppling on to me, followed immediately by a blackout and the sensation of suffocating. So I guess I’m afraid of being crushed to death. I have no idea where this comes from!

Considering we’re talking about fallen trees, there’s no danger of them falling on me – that part has indeed already taken place, albeit thankfully not with me underneath! So perhaps the second reason for my fear is the overriding one…

Trees are rooted, literally, in the earth. They are attached to and embedded in the ground in a way us flighty mammals could never truly relate to. There is a sense of permanence to their existence. So when they are uprooted and fall, crashing to the ground, this stability, this security, this supposed permanence is shattered. Something that majestic, that great, that solid should not just fall like that. It feels wrong, unnatural, corrupt. Unsettling.

Roots claw at the sky, startled by the light. A foreboding ditch scooped out of the earth reveals its secrets – gritty stones in pastel hues, great boulders huddled together, tendril-like roots. A subterranean world of intricate network cables. It’s fascinating, yet feels voyeuristic, to violate the tree’s privacy in this way. We are seeing the inner workings of an organism, the part it normally keeps hidden from the world of light and human noise.

I tread carefully around the ditch and the saucer of crusty soil and stones still attached to the base of the tree. I walk alongside the thick, muscular trunk of the beech, now resting on its side. Up ahead, moss-covered branches reach out long, pushing back a circle of trees who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Some fallen trees are caught suspended in a violent moment, ripped from their spot and launched by the wind. This beautiful beech, however, looked surprisingly peaceful, once I’d got past the exposed roots and earth. It lay on a lush bed of ferns and soft, boggy soil, getting comfortable for the big sleep. Everything has its time, it seemed to say.

From my new vantage point gazing along its branches, I saw a grace and beauty as present as when the tree stood upright. As if it had simply dozed off and tipped over on to its side, and now rested in a gentle slumber. How different a picture to my initial encounter.

I knew I would get poetic. When it comes to trees, I always do.