Category: trees

Begwary Brook: Part 1

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Every encounter with the natural world is a special one for me, each new creek or patch of moorland a delight to discover, but every now and then I come across a place that is particularly special.

Begwary Brook in Bedfordshire is a marshy haven abundant with life, a peaceful escape from the droning traffic of the nearby A1. As you walk the uneven yellow brick path, then continue alongside the River Ouse meandering lazily past, white tails on furry brown bottoms bob up ahead, rabbits darting into the undergrowth. You catch a glimpse of two ears, stock-still, a shiny black eye and button nose twitching as you creep past.

I first encountered the little nature reserve on a sunny evening just over a month ago. I was working away from home, only my second foray out of Cornwall since the start of the pandemic, and feeling incredibly exposed. For months I, like many people, had been cooped up in my flat, working from our old dining table repurposed into a desk. Hotel rooms, strangers, even basic human interaction, had all become well out of my comfort zone, whereas once, as an actor often away on tour, they were sometimes more familiar to me than home. To discover a nature reserve so close to where I was staying flooded my harried mind with relief.

Stepping in through the trees, I took care to stick to the path, avoiding the water-logged grassy areas either side. Used to Cornish clifftop coastal paths, this flat, marshy terrain was foreign to me, unfamiliar yet enticing.

Up ahead the grass gave way to water, still and slick, reflecting the bare branches above. Early to leaf, willows dipped graceful tendrils into the pool. The path ran alongside, sitting water on one side, the flowing water of the river on the other. A kayaker glided past.

Leaving the glassy pool behind, the vista opened out before me, a spread of marshland. Trees rose up out of the marsh, some with thick, sturdy trunks, others clawing dead fingers at the sky. Many in the wooded areas had fallen or stood bent at the waist, supported by the trunks of their neighbours. Clumps of nettles bordered the path, dry scratchy grasses breaking through rich green foliage bordering the marsh. This mixture of wet and dry, of lush greens and parched browns, of messy undergrowth and still, swampy water was a different world to my home in Cornwall. But it was beautiful all the same, and bathed me in a wonderful sense of peace.

Following a topsy-turvy path, I meandered through the trees. The percussive trill of a woodpecker travelled through the wood. I stopped and pricked up my ears, desperate for another hint of its presence. It came again.

Out in the open again, a bumble bee bustled past and a pale yellow butterfly danced around my head. All around me, the nature reserve was teeming with life, much of it remaining hidden from human sight.

I returned to this special place whenever my work schedule permitted over the following two weeks. The giddy energy of that first sunny encounter was replaced by a contemplative stillness on my next visit, the sky a blanket of dusty grey clouds and the air a touch cooler. I delighted in discovering the changing character of this place each time.

There are two moments from my walks around Begwary Brook that are particularly special to me. On one occasion I was stomping happily along when I narrowly missed stepping on a toad. It stood stock-still on the path, its knobbly brownish-green body blending with the earth. After forcing aside the initial distress that I almost squashed the little chap, I took a moment to mark this special encounter, then carefully stepped past to leave it in peace.

The second notable moment came a week later. I was walking the opposite way around the reserve to get a different perspective, and had stopped to enjoy the birdsong, when I spotted an animal on the path up ahead. We were too far apart for me to make it out clearly, but I saw a deer’s head on a shorter, stockier body than I expected, about the size of a medium-sized dog. As part of my mind struggled with these unfamiliar proportions, I stood mesmerised. I watched this creature as it stood watching me back. And then it was gone.

I recounted the experience to my mum that evening and she suggested it could have been a muntjac deer. Never having heard of this, I dutifully Googled and discovered this species was introduced into the UK from China in the 20th century and is now commonplace across South East England. Protected in the UK under the Deer Act 1991, it can however cause damage to woodland through browsing. Looking at the images on my screen, I was sure this was what I’d seen. An encounter with a creature I hadn’t even known existed!  

I don’t know why Begwary Brook feels so special to me. Maybe it’s because it provided a safe space to feel close to nature when I felt otherwise exposed and scared about the pandemic. Maybe it’s because it felt like a home from home – a very different type of habitat to home, but the natural world nonetheless. Or maybe it’s because that’s exactly what it is: a very special place, and one I hope to return to one day.

Sketching ‘in the field’

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Image shows an open sketchbook lying on a rough wooden bench. On the pages of the sketchbook is a rough pen sketch of trees surrounding water and marshland.

Sketching is something I’ve always enjoyed, but as a former perfectionist (drama school helped me mostly shift it), I’m used to focusing on trying to make every little detail perfect. This results in every drawing taking several hours in a room with no distractions and a clear worktop. It seems a bit too sterile for creativity.

So I’ve recently started taking a little sketchbook and a few pens out and about with me on my walks. Then when the feeling takes me, I perch somewhere and just draw. It’s quick, rough and most definitely not perfect, but it’s also invaluable experience. We rarely experience the ‘perfect’ conditions for creativity, or at least what we think them to be. Through these quick, impulsive sketches I’m discovering the joy of a wonky line, a vague outline, a scribbled detail. And through this process, my drawings are beginning to look less like technical drawings and more, well, alive. Could this be because I’m drawing the real thing, rather than drawing from a photograph?

As a child I drew a lot, often just for the pleasure of it. As an adult, especially a self-employed creative preoccupied with productivity (has this replaced the perfectionism?), I often have to remind myself that it’s ok to be creative just for fun. It doesn’t have to lead to work, or a hundred likes on a social media post (but yes, I did post these sketches on Instagram….).

Of course, drawing ‘in the field’ has its challenges – in the first picture I wanted to add some shading to show the direction of the evening sun but was all too aware the midges had arrived and were eating me alive. So I took a photograph of this lovely spot and, back home, I added in the shading and created a bit more depth to the drawing (see image above left).

There’s also the time element. One evening I wanted to focus on a texture, doing a detailed study of the wooden bench I was sitting on. I sketched out the main components and began to fill in the details, but had to head back indoors for dinner long before I’d finished. So again, I took a photo and continued the drawing at home (as you can see from the image above right, I’ve still not finished).

I remind myself that these aren’t finished pieces. They’re reactions, explorations, a little adventure of pen on paper. A limbering-up of creative and observational muscles. And most importantly, they’re fun.

Notebook: Moleskine Art medium sketchbook, sapphire.

Pens: Faber Castell Pitt Artist Pen india ink pen, fine nib.

Fear of fallen trees

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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.

A walk is always worth it

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A long read, written one blustery day two weeks ago…

I didn’t think I would go out today. Despite being shut inside all day, despite this being my one daily permitted chance to get outside during the lockdown, I didn’t fancy it. It was pelting it down out there. Blowing a hooley. I didn’t fancy getting wet.

Just before dinner the rain stopped. The wind blew the dark blanket of clouds on to the next unsuspecting town and left a large patch of heavenly blue. The sun shone down. I ate my dinner.

As I cleared away the dinner plates and rinsed then stacked them in the dishwasher I surveyed the situation outside once more. Iffy would be the word.

Sod it. I grabbed my coat, its pockets stuffed with hand sanitiser and tissues, had an obligatory pre-walk pee, then made for the door and the big wide world beyond.

It was cold. I definitely should have worn a scarf. I zipped my coat right up under my chin and set off up the hill at a pace that meant business.

But as I ducked under a branch and stomped into the first patch of woodland I felt something inside relax. I smiled up at the trees standing there in their usual spots. Hello old friends. The wind whipped their new leaves up into a frenzy. I glanced down at the twigs scattered about my feet and issued a silent prayer to the trees to wait until I’d passed from underneath before they released the next batch to the wind.

Further along, the path of earth and gravel became soft and squelchy underfoot. I tramped onwards, glad for a decent pair of boots. The robin and blackbird sang high above as I passed. The songthrush played its impressive vocal repertoire then paused when it noticed me standing there in breath-held awe. Listening to this bird’s vocal acrobatics never fails to fill me with delight.

I passed through patches of bluebells amongst the field maples, stopping to say hello to a man and his terrier from a safe 2-metre distance. I remembered my new naturalist app on my phone and opened it up, photographing different leaves here and there to see if I could add any new species to my ‘observations’ collection.

When I reached the Point the restless sea stretched out before me. I turned to face the castle up on the hill and my breath caught at the beauty of the sky on fire, its flames silhouetting the familiar keep.

Crossing to the lookout point to get a better shot, the full force of the wind rushed at me and nearly knocked me off my feet. I managed a few minutes of staring out at the waves in exhilaration before I bowed out, breathless and bedraggled, and turned for home.

I took the moat walk back, hoping the ditch would offer some shelter from the wind and approaching rain. Leaves of different shapes and sizes whirled around in the air, some landing at my feet, others being carried off up over the castle grounds. The moaning of the wind through Half Moon Battery made me quicken my pace a little.

Up on the road leading to the castle I said goodnight to the trees dancing either side of me as I walked down the hill. One last look at the sea, its rows of white-tipped waves rolling in, then I turned away and carried on down the street towards the flat.

There had been a brief spell of rain, a whole lot of wind, and, as with every walk I take around Pendennis Headland, a good dose of magic. A walk is always worth it.

A study of a tree: the holm oak

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On my daily walks I often take a route through the patch of woodland on Pendennis Headland near my home in Falmouth. The path meanders through lush field maple, sycamore and wildflowers before turning down to join the road, but if you continue off the beaten track you reach two areas of beautiful old oaks.

As you enter the second of these especially a hush descends on the clearing and you become aware you are in the presence of something ancient. A carpet of brown leaves shifts underfoot as you step further in amongst these peaceful sentries. Each of them is striking in its own way, but one tree stands out as being the most majestic. Reaching long arms out across the ground, its crown a Medusa mass of writhing branches, this tree holds me captive each time I am in its presence. Its trunk twisted, its cacophony of limbs, some heavy and grounded, others reaching skyward, gives it an essence of the macabre. There is an almost foreboding element to its beauty.

There is a magnetism to this oak but also an undercurrent of fear that bubbles in the bottom of my gut. Something about those serpent-esque branches and how they reach out towards me. They look as if they were made for motion, as if the tree is caught in a momentary pause whenever I look at it, only to return to an unnerving undulation as soon as I look away. If I look away for long enough, will one of those branches reach out towards me and grapple at my jacket with bony fingers? Will it try to pull me in towards a gaping mouth, or coil around my body and squeeze until my eyes bulge?

I decide the only thing for it is to get closer. A proper introduction is in order. I approach gently, as if to avoid startling a great beast into attack, and place a hand either side of the nearest branch. The bark is more grey than brown and cracked, the branch thick at its base then eventually tapering out along the ground, like a muscular elephant’s trunk caked in dried mud. I close my eyes and feel.

At first I am only aware of the dry bark beneath my skin, but all of a sudden there is a sensation, a sort of vibration, travelling into my palms. All living things vibrate, so could it be the tree’s vibrations as a living entity that I am experiencing? It’s hard to know, and when I ask my partner to do the same on a separate visit to the tree he doesn’t feel anything, so maybe I’m romanticising it. But I do feel something, some sort of energy. It’s similar to when you rub your palms together for a minute then hold your hands apart, palms facing, and you can feel a tingling sensation when the palms get closer.

On this occasion I just felt and absorbed the energy coming from the tree, but on my walk through there the following day I thought it only fair to try to reciprocate; to share some of my energy as a living being with it. So when I placed my palms to its bark this time, after feeling that same vibration or presence, I focused on sharing my own, on opening a two-way channel.

Now each time I approach this tree I say a silent hello, reach up to a branch, and close my eyes. If you’re ever in Falmouth and passing that way through the woods near Pendennis Point, and you see a young woman standing by a great oak with her eyes closed don’t be alarmed. We’re just having a moment.

I believe this tree and those surrounding it to be holm oaks, also known as the holly oak, so named for their holly-like leaves. This species isn’t native to Britain. It was introduced to Britain in the late 1500s, and hails from the eastern Mediterranean. An evergreen species, in young trees the leaves are spiny, but on older trees the leaves have a smoother edge. The leaves on this tree are smoother, as expected – it’s clearly been around a while! To the touch, they’re glossy on top and downy on the underside.

In Max Adams’ beautiful book, The Wisdom of Trees, he refers to the several life stages of an oak, including “stag-headed dinosaur” and eventually “withered wreck”. I feel this oak may be somewhere between the two.

I thought I would leave you with a quote from one of my favourite books, Wildwood by the late, great Roger Deakin:

The enemies of woods are always the enemies of culture and humanity.

Wildwood by Roger Deakin