Won’t you come and crunch some acorns with me? Fact, fiction and times past, all woven crudely together and unravelled here, in this short story search for purpose.
Early one autumn morn during a country walk, I happened across an impressive holly oak tree, where I chose to sit for a while. There, I was to discover not just a handsome tree but a potent place, one that offered a lens through which landscape and life could be viewed.
Prior to that deep-seated moment, I’d been drifting in and out of thought whilst stomping up a hill, upon which oaks and yews had lived for a century or more. Boughs from path side trees formed an impressive tunnel overhead, but my eyes were mostly flitting from fronds beside the path one moment, to fungi living on fallen wood the next: all the while crunching over acorns strewn all about, it being a mast year.
After a few minutes of continual climb, I was drawn by some light glowing from the side of the track, although given the seemingly never-ending weather pattern, it wasn’t so much a burst of sun, but a brief patch of brightness. Nevertheless, whilst standing there appreciating that burly oak’s silhouette, a narrow track appeared before me, so through the ferny foliage I duly stepped, unsure if I was simply exploring the place, or had been summoned to it.
My discovery of an ill-fated tree on a wooded hillside, a tree striving to survive and play its part for our world – a reworked essay from Gardening Ways 2017.
Time travelling back to a tree planting day on a gentle hillside a century or so ago, I picture a fresh-faced country character with their sleeves rolled back and a bead of sweat beneath their flat cap, standing back to admire their work. They, like us now would have wanted only the best for this tree that I now stand before, especially after digging into this heavy ground that I know to be stone filled and stubborn.
As for any tree planter today, our character would have wished for this tree to establish well and prosper, feeling equally sorrowful and comforted knowing it would hopefully remain long after they themselves had breathed their last. Nodding to the future then, they’d have prayed for a mild season or two to ensure that its shoots would get away and its roots would establish well, binding the tree to that spot for generations to come.
Until you see it, I mean really see it, it’s just another tree in the woods. G.Webb.
After firming down clods of earth with the heel of a hobnail boot, the planter would likely have scooped water from the nearby lakeside to settle its roots, then fixed in place a strong protective frame to guard it against attack; a metal cage likely to have dwarfed the infant tree but certain to keep it from harm. Little did they know that despite the most caring of intentions, their actions condemned the tree to a torturous future.
I’m bouncing back again with edition two of my garden journal, one with serious woody notes to begin with, but looking up with joy and inspiration to the end.
Here I am back with a second garden journal entry, and I do hope to find you well. I’ll jump swiftly into my journal, but make no apologies for the heavy beginning, as I became increasingly bothered over the past week as you’ll see. I promise to try and end on a lighter note though, if I can.
Generally Speaking.
It’s been raining overnight in our neck of the woods and all around is once again squelchy and soft. The rain however, itself causing havoc and flood damage in many areas has been eclipsed yet again by the devastation caused by storm-force winds. (After that opener, you might see that it would feel a little shallow and ignorant if I were simply to write this week about how challenging it’s been to get out in my garden!)
Storm Éowyn last week, and back in December storm Darragh have each been responsible for widespread damage across the UK and beyond, including the shearing and felling of thousands upon thousands of mature trees across gardens, parks, estates and countryside. Whilst the impact across all areas was severe and challenging for people with actual loss of life, itself heart-wrenching, my professional focus at times like this soon turns to the people on the ground: those responsible for the enormous task of making areas safe and accessible.
Being centrally placed in England, and whilst not completely unscathed I feel fortunate to have escaped much of the storm driven destruction – more a case of luck over judgement, I think. Having worked with trees for so long though I’m naturally uncomfortable with it all, understanding as I do the hard physical effort and difficulties associated with clearing up after a storm, not to mention the emotional impact of losing special trees. Trees, being forceful structures that populate our day-to-day lives, can leave an awfully big hole when they’re taken by the will of a storm.
The loss of any tree can be hugely upsetting, especially if a particular tree holds significance: if it were planted by notable individual or to mark an historic occasion, for example. When the number of tree losses rise however, the impact and true cost can lift enormously, not just the cost of removal, repair and replacement, but the physical and emotional impact on our treasured spaces.
To conclude this section, and whilst trying hard here not to spiral into a detailed dialogue on the value of trees or shout into the void from my soap box, I do want to finish with some final words in support of those in far off places dealing with the impacts of said storms.
The physical, emotional and financial cost of the cleanup will be substantial, and in each shaken location folks will be coming to terms with the impacts of a changing climate; I do hope those caught up in this are getting the help and support they need.
As we move forward, I know that wise minds are learning from these extreme events, to help us better prepare for a future where we do stand a chance of weathering these storms more effectively: there will be a way and our beloved trees, with a little help, will win through.
In the Garden
Stepping into the shallows after all, I’m glad to say that I did manage to find time between the showers to flex my green fingers, with my first new year session in the home garden.
The session wasn’t much to write home about, which does present a challenge as that’s exactly what I’m here to do – write about gardens! I did though tackle one ornamental border, cutting back all useless dead growth from last season to expose areas of soil in between shrubs and perennials. Once my mind was made to get stuck in, I very quickly found my stride, trimming, picking up fallen debris and generally tidying.
Leaving a couple of deciduous grasses alone, which I shall trim back a little nearer to spring, (I hope they’re packed with ladybirds so I’ll stay well clear for now,) my goal was to clear away just enough debris so that I could mulch across the surface with a nice insulating layer of organic peat-free material. Whilst the mulch itself is primarily intended to benefit the soil, it will suppress weeds and its visual impact is a treat, leaving a nice dark even surface that sets off the planting beautifully. More borders lie in wait for attention.
As far as the allotment is concerned, last weekend I secured a batch of seed potatoes, and have set these out in a cardboard tray in the shed window to chit, or develop their shoots. This year I’ve gone again for first earlies and maincrop varieties, the former ‘Casablanca’, the latter ‘Elland’, my search continuing for a spud that tastes especially good. I’ll have some space for at least one other variety, so if you’ve a recommendation for a good allrounder, I’m certainly open to suggestions.
Seed potatoes chitting, new shoots for the new year.
Looking ahead.
As well as the spuds, last week I also acquired some more garlic bulbs and onion sets, which I’ve yet to deal with. I’ve some in the ground already that were planted last autumn, but many appear to have lost their shoots to birds, so growing these ones on in modular trays for a while is my plan. Mind you, if I wake up brave, I might plant them direct with some fleece over, we’ll see. (With no Monty right now to tell us what to do at the weekend, how are we to know?!)
Last time I mentioned the purchase of a new bird box for the garden, which is now all decorated and awaiting installation – another job for the weekend. I’ll share its grand opening on Insta when I do finally fix it in place, the bird box artwork is a bit different to the norm and something of a collaboration – I shall say no more for now!
Finally, now that a new moon has come to pass and waxes towards February’s Snow Moon, I shall be continuing to take as many evening walks as I can, not only to stretch my legs but also to make the very most of the starry skies. They’ve always been there I know, but as the days rapidly draw out, I’m increasingly pulled to make the most of the dark skies while they’re here (at a decent time), and each day find myself looking forward to seeing what the night’s sky will hold. There have been some exquisite opportunities recently.
If you’re local to me and see me leaning on a lamp-post on a street corner, I won’t be waiting for a little lady to walk by, but will certainly be looking up and besotted with the star speckled sky! (If you’re of a certain age you’ll know what I mean!)
For now, I’ll wish you all the best, and will sign off my garden journal. Regards, Gary Webb. Gardening ways.
If you know me you’ll know of my fondness for trees, and even knowing they have turned on me from time to time, I’m unlikely to have anything negative to say about them. This week being National Tree Week then, is a time for me to reflect on the wonder of trees, to celebrate and be thankful for them, and if conditions permit: a time to plant one too. It would be remiss of me therefore not to put pen to paper and fingers to keys in order to show my respect for our woody friends. If you’re here though for the usual ‘love and plant trees’ kind of message, you might just be barking up the wrong tree.
Today I’m not so much going to write about trees, but write as one, and yes you did read that correctly: I’ll be morphing into an actual tree, to present an alternative tree’s-eye view. Should you choose to read on therefore, you’ll find it’s not so much me talking about trees, but talking as one, for a change. Go with it for a while, I dare you!
Now, to a point, I’d consider myself tree-like anyway, my robust trunk having grown incrementally over the years. When puzzled, my furrowed forehead isn’t too far removed from a tree’s fissured bark, and at times I can get a little creaky. Thankfully,
The presence of trees in our world should never cease to astound. Take a look at this Ginkgo, for example, living its moments peacefully in a Herefordshire garden. Note: This article, previously posted autumn 2023 has been reworked for this autumn, renewed after meeting the tree again recently. I hope it triggers some tree-like exploration…
Standing beneath its mature crown looking up, it was hard not to be impressed by the tree’s volume and its many stems shooting out in different directions. Dare I say, the tree may not have been an artistically formed treasure like the trained fruit in the walled garden nearby, but it did hold a rugged charm. If however the tree lacked any refinement in its structural form, it more than made up for this in style, its many clustered leaves shining en masse with a fiery yellow intensity.
With confidence the tree spoke too, proving it wasn’t all about the frilly foliage display. A soft purposeful sound emanated from its crown, a tune that hushed with each southerly breath of wind. As this cool November breeze blew in from the park, I moved in closer,
Logic tells me its hard wood picked up none of my thoughts, but nonetheless I willed the little tree to feel something, not wanting it to stand there in silence anymore. In humanising this undeniably non-human being though, sending thoughts in lieu of an impossible conversation, I wanted the tree to feel noticed and appreciated, not just ignored as part the scenery.
I’ve stood before this somewhat ordinary tree many times, this time however, my attention was seized by a blood coloured berry, one of just a few left dotted around the tree’s tangled twiggy mass of branches. Where just a few weeks ago little red
Exactly what do people do when ‘forest bathing’ is a question I’d pondered for sometime, when intrigue recently got the better of me. I happened across Healing Earth Ways who were offering a session relatively nearby, another bonus being that participation supported Warwickshire Wildlife Trust; surely it was a win-win situation for all.
My first session began on a sun-blessed morning when frost covered shaded ground, beside a reservoir car park in rural Warwickshire where our welcoming guide stood patiently with a list of names, smiling reassuringly. Before us was an especially bright white stand of birch trees, and behind those a woodland belt which clearly concealed the place we’d soon to be heading.
Morning perfection, by Gary Webb
Beginning with an introduction to the nature of forest bathing, or Shinrin-yoku as it’s called in its origin homeland Japan, our guide softly explained what we’d let ourselves in for. Rather than
Ginkgo or Maidenhair tree at Berrington Hall, Herefordshire.
The other day I had occasion to visit a garden where aside from varied border displays so artfully cared for by the garden team, I was dazzled by an extraordinary Ginkgo tree. The tree was right in the midst of its autumn display with hundreds and thousands of little leaves, each of them fan-shaped, tiny and glowing gold in the light. I was struck by the tree’s sheer brilliance, illuminated as it was by a low sun shining across the parkland at Berrington Hall. It was a moment that I knew would crown most others that day.
I wasn’t blessed with an abundance of time, otherwise I’d have trotted across the park to view the tree from a distance. It would have looked impressive though for sure, nestled in the midst of ‘Capability’ Brown’s final garden. No, this time I was blessed in a different way, being close-up and personal, us both stood in a sublime part rural Herefordshire.
Standing beneath its mature crown looking up, it was hard not to be impressed by the tree’s volume and its many stems shooting out in different directions. Dare I say, the tree may not have been an artistically formed treasure
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.
Sunlit Sasa
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
Gardening Ways 