If you have spent anywhere near as much time under tree cover as I have, you will appreciate that it isn’t hard to understand why people love them so much. It is far from a mythical perception, that a tree will provide us with a sense of calmness and reassurance, but also a distinctly vivid reminder of just how small we are in comparison. It is somehow easy to forget that they are living, breathing organisms, but to be in the close company of an ancient tree is to almost feel the very life pulsating through these remarkable behemoths.
The act of ‘tree-hugging’ has so many negative connotations attached to it these days, but trust me, you try wrapping your arms around an old ash or oak, far too wide to fully clasp, and I guarantee you will be provided with a sensation that just doesn’t exist anywhere else. Let us consider for a moment that an ancient tree is literally a living entity of hundreds, or potentially thousands of years. It is said that an oak spends 300 years growing, 300 years living and 300 years dying. Picture the sheer amount of people through the ages that have walked under one of these trees, over its roots and utilised its shelter and protection. Sadly, for reasons well documented, fewer and fewer remain these days. They are our true national treasures, and they deserve our undivided attention.
Half a centuries worth of Sweet Chestnut (Castanea sativa).
Where better to start than with a nod to two of our most enigmatic trees; the common yew and the oak. Both are synonymous with the word ancient, both steeped in folklore and legend, and are deeply ingrained in our culture.
Yews are amongst the longest lived trees in the world, some of which are thousands of years old. If that wasn’t special enough, yews are dioecious meaning some are female and some male, with recent studies discovering that they can actually change their own sex. An ancient yew will sometimes give the impression that they are dying, with larger limbs dropping to the ground as if they are too heavy to sustain, but they will then produce new roots where the limb is resting. These are followed by fresh growth above, thus coining the term - phoenix tree. You can certainly appreciate why the druids saw the yew as a symbol of immortality. A tree that just won’t give up.
The UK is home to most of the worlds yews, with around 80 percent of those found growing in our churchyards. There are many theories as to why this is the case, one being that their toxicity warded off grazing animals treading on the sacred ground, and another is again related to the yews evergreen presence and welcome sense of immortality and reincarnation. However there are many notions as to why such a vast amount are located on religious lands, but one thing that can’t be denied is that this has inevitably assisted in their longevity.
The compacted roots of a mature Yew (Taxus baccata).
Our two native oaks - the pedunculate (English) and the sessile, unequivocally define our British countryside, colonising here some 9000 years ago. What makes an oak truly unique is that it supports more species of life than any other tree, mainly due to just how long they have been around for, allowing so many species to co-evolve alongside it. It is mind-blowing to think that a mature oak can host up to 300 different species of invertebrates. They are unconditionally irreplaceable to our ecosystems.
The fallen leaves of the Oak provide vital predation cover for foraging small mammals and invertebrates.
As we all know, trees including the mighty oak are now slowing down, with a focus on preservation for the winter period. But not so long ago, the summer oak would have comfortably drank around 50 gallons of water a day - a staggering concept!
Now deep into autumn, you may begin to notice that they are now housing vast quantities of long-tailed tits and goldcrests, with the coming winter months also ensuring that treecreepers become more visible to us as they probe into the oak bark, pursuing overwintering insect eggs and larvae. Keep a lookout at the moment amongst the fallen leaf litter for another element within the oaks larder of life - the oak gall, specifically the apple gall or the knopper gall. These are both a small, mutation on the pedunculate oak caused by a female gall wasp laying her eggs within the twigs of the tree, later forming the perfect growth to harbour the wasps larvae. They are pretty harmless to the tree, but again we can see just how important trees are in providing life in so many intricate ways. The oak is a symbol, an icon and the true fabric of why I believe trees to be the most perfect example of life on earth. Trees like the oak aren’t just mere wood and leaf, they are an animation of existence entirely in their own right.
On the Gibside estate in the North East, deep in a Western Hemlock plantation block, lies the last remnants of the fabled ‘King Oak’. Planted by the Bowes family, it was once the largest tree on the estate, but now only the base remains, revealing an almost medieval throne like appearance within a small enlightened glade. Even in death, you cannot take away the majesty of this once great tree, and it’s now decaying state provides sustenance to a whole new host of invertebrates, fungi, lichens and microscopic organisms. The lifecycle of a tree never really ends, it is just the case of new chapter in its journey.
The last remnants of the King Oak.
King Oak, Gibside estate, North East England.
One unmistakeable aspect of the current autumnal backdrop is the rather familiar sound of a squawking jay. Jays will bury acorns to provide themselves with a valuable food source for the difficult winter months. They can cache thousands of acorns, but occasionally the hoard location is forgotten. Many oak seedlings are the result of this, and if you spot a new, isolated oak some distance away from a parent tree, then this is likely to be the handiwork of an absent-minded jay or scatterbrained squirrel.
Amongst the leaf litter, you might just be lucky enough to find a real surprise. A natural pattern of beauty, journey and exploration, representing the larval stage of either moth, beetle or fly, in the form of nature’s very own canvas. What I am referring to, is the leaf miner. A painting of the pre-adult life of these micro creatures. Examine them closely and you should find where its life first began, along with its exit point from the leaf, marking its introduction to the wider world. A stunning illustration of the shelter and food source that a tree can offer. If you do happen to find one, it is worth pointing out that they make a great bookmark for any keen naturalists out there!
Superb specimen of a leaf miner.
This is such a magical time of year with the typical colours, sounds and smells of autumn, and being able to see such a vast transformation in our trees within such a relatively short space of time. It is not beyond the realms of possibility to one day see a tree displaying its full spectrum of autumnal foliage, but after a succession of strong winds, returning the next day to observe the same specimen both stripped and sparse.
So what now then?
Because for many people, a tree’s leaves are the most obvious way of correctly identifying a species. The answer, is winter twigs. Investigate a little closer, and the twigs and overwintering buds of a tree will provide you with all the knowledge that you seek.
Female Hazel flower (Corylus avellana).
Whether it be the oak’s cluster of golden dragon eggs, the common lime’s reddish boxing glove, the hazel’s vibrant sea anemone flower or the conveniently sooty black appearance of the ash, you will find that the vast majority of tree buds will give you some very recognisable features. A whole new way of admiring the annual life cycle of a tree and appreciating just how complex an organism they can be.
I noticed this week that in some trees, this process has already begun, and a walk along the river gifted me with a glimpse of one of my absolute favourites; the alder. The alder possesses some quite stunning features. Alders love wet, boggy soils and thrive in a wet environment that would rot many of our native trees. Not the alder though. Water makes its heartwood even stronger. What I love most about this gnarly, ethereal looking tree is its purple buds and catkins, with its twigs and their distinctive orange markings. They really do brighten up a riverside ramble on a bleak late autumn or winters day.
Alder woodlands, which will almost always be found in wet areas, were often called ‘carrs’ derived from the norse word ‘Kjarr’ meaning swamp, a name still frequently used today in the world of practical conservation and habitat management.
Male Alder catkins (Alnus glutinosa).
Mauve Alder bud (Alnus glutinosa).
My adoration of trees is something that seems to constantly grow, with the more time I spend dwelling in their presence. Gazing up at their branches in the moonlight gives a sense of almost supernatural presence. Taking the time to cast your eyes over the complexities and sometimes labyrinthine like patterns of their leaves, bark and crown structures can deliver us with an instant zen like state of mind.
I mean, how can we not be in complete awe of a single structure that has a constant back and forth flow of nutrients in motion within its thin, cambium layer, just underneath its outer bark surface? A life form that for countless years has provided us with homes, warmth, shelter, food, medicine and spiritual wellbeing? A plant so intelligent that it can communicate with its kin through an under ground root system and provide them with nutrients when in need? Not to mention the symbiotic relationship they have with networks of fungi, ensuring each others’ survival. A being that can actually identify the saliva of certain insects attacking their leaves, to then call on parasitic wasps to come to their rescue and ingest them?
I could go on, but you get my point. Trees are one of a kind.
One thing that 2020 has taught us all is that no matter how much we tend to forget, or act like we are not - we ARE nature. We are all connected, every living organism on this planet, in one vast multiplex of ecological environment. Perhaps the reason why as a species, we are so attached to trees is that we are not so dissimilar ourselves. After all, we each have roots, we all require the same basic elements to survive, we all rely on others to reach our potential, and we all reach our potential by helping others. Let the trees be our guiding light through tough times and the shining example of - “from small beginnings come great things.”
Don’t forget to look up.
