Just between you, me and the trees…

Autumn sun streamed through shade shifting trees on a day I’d put aside for outdoor exploration. The venue chosen for strolling, clicking a picture or two and sitting awhile was a local arboretum, with a strap line quietly confirming it ‘The Cotswolds Secret Garden’, so I feel lucky at least to have found it!

After ten or so minutes of ambling I began to settle in and decided the time had come to sit and write a little. As fortune would have it, set back from the path a silvered timber seat presented itself, its intricate woodwork dressed with tiny vivid green mossy pincushions; I’ll be like the moss I thought, and will sit quietly on this lovely bench and observe.

Into my view and just across the way came a large lily pond cushioned to the rear by a belt of ferns, their fronds showing signs of a seasonal shift. Filtered light fell all over this area as my still busy mind processed all I could take in. I wondered whether, by the end of October, if the ferns would light up due to the cold or whether they’d fade away gently, as some do, to a brown crispy nothingness.

Over a century ago, the entire scene before me had been carefully created at great cost, both to someone’s purse and to the backs and muscles of many hard working folk. Huge rocks had been acquired, hauled around the

hillside and placed with precision. Ponds had been hand dug, terraces formed and streams cut, bridges stretched across artificial crags and evocative sculpture placed. This landscape feature would be a major installation even with today’s know how and technology, and no Chelsea show garden could ever come close to its overall achievement.

Having now aged, the entire scene has mellowed like seasoned hardwood, its pockets of light and shade making for characterful grain-like texture. Stately trees now spread their limbs up high above the garden’s elements, and dense maple stems twist and twine below, arching themselves over pathways and artistically framing features.

After a short space of time I put pencil to page to capture the essence of what had grown before me, but moments later a honey coloured bumble bee crash landed giving me a start. The fuzzy visitor was drawn by the paper’s brightness, though soon scrambled off the page having realised its mistake. As I resumed my activity being statue still there followed a range of colourful flies, a red admiral butterfly and a compact dragonfly that swooped and hovered in stages down to the water’s edge. At least to this small slice of the wildlife I had become part of the furniture.

I next headed up a steep path towards a Japanese Rest House for a change of scene, pausing only for pictures and to allow a gardener’s vehicle to rumble on down the hill. Once seated again I recalled my last visit in spring when the views were quite different. Back then a vibrancy had gripped the landscape and the grass seemed greener, trees were sprouting new shoots and flowers were everywhere; it was certainly the beginning of a new growing year filled with hope and many cherry blossom promises.

Now in autumn, gone are the daffodils and grape hyacinths that once embellished the banks before the rest house. Lost is the treetop blossom, the pale primroses and chequered fritillaries, gone too is the promise of summer which is now just a memory. Having long lost its lively spring costume, the wooded slopes are now playing host to a whole new set of wonders.

Leaves are now losing their green and beginning to reveal their true colours, and berries are glowing from pink to red to violet to yellow. Where pretty flower petals once vied with the grass for attention, a deep green sward now dominates, sprinkled with conifer cones and acorns showing their gold and bronze tones. Whilst autumn colours are yet to really fire and the energy of the place is clearly slowing, the vibrancy and life is equally as engaging now as it was in spring.

Becoming rooted to my bench, I noticed more this time how special was the view beyond the old bamboo, where a smoothness and a feeling of space now showed itself. Instead of moved earth, evenly mown lawns led my eyes to woodland edge planting backed by immensely tall spire-like conifers. Considering the balance of space and mass, it seemed the elements of this artificially natural scene were conspiring to deliver the restorative day I’d sought, those trees filtering and filling the air with nothing but goodness.

Whilst ploughing the depths of thought, I was pulled back to the now by the sound of a crow cawing from beyond the wood, that replaced by a rushing of wind caught high in a stand of trees. I was at once right up their as if I were the breeze itself, drawn in a split second to swoosh between the branches, rushing into and between thousands of tiny silver-backed needles stuck fast to each branch. As the wind dropped though, seemingly as quick as it arrived, my focus again changed, this time to the present moment, to my bench.

I realised the myriad of elements were combining and toying with my senses like all landscapes do. The sun’s rays were beginning to cook my shins, a gentle breeze stroked the back of my neck and my rear felt numb from its time on the scroll-ended bench; it was time to move on.

As I walked, stopping a few times more to examine acorns and touch some leaves, I realised that my time there was nearly done – at least for that day. I reflected on having achieved what I’d set out for. I had indeed enjoyed some strolling, over three miles of it in fact, and I’d also made time to tune in to see the place more clearly.

Cold leaves had been stroked, smooth bark touched, acorns studied and the scent of undiscovered flowers had tickled my nose. The arboretum’s trees had spoken to me without saying a thing, their filtered air filling my lungs, and the long nurtured ground had softened some of my steps. The only way for those moments to have improved would have been if my nearest had been at my side, so for now, those moments I shared alone with the place will have to remain strictly between you, me, and the trees.

Gary Webb