... or how trees help me to grow.
At the time of writing this, (December 2020,) I am in Scotland and surrounded by trees. Many are commercially cultivated trees of fir, pine and spruce. There are some deciduous species, but not in the same numbers as I saw in Ireland. Back then, (March – May 2019,) I made an effort to photograph some of the special trees I saw, to share on my blog. I guess now is the time.
What I like about taking photos of trees is that it is relatively easy for a beginner. Here in Scotland, I have watched a woodpecker come to the bird feeder virtually every day for the past month. I still have never been quick enough to photograph it!
Having said that, trees are not always easy. They tend to cling together and getting a good shot of one without including part of another can be difficult. Also, keeping out man-made things like telephone lines or even buildings can be hard to do. It is also challenging to try and photograph them in different seasons and in different lights, which means returning again and again – not possible for a short-term visitor.
I know I am a novice around trees. I have a friend who I see as a tree expert. He works for “Trees for Life” https://treesforlife.org.uk/ and on occasions when I have roamed woods with him, he seems to know the names of all the different species and whether they are native or imported. He has so much knowledge to share and you can find some of it on his website here. I can just about tell an oak from a holly tree. But I do adore trees and miss them when I am not around them.
I think it is true to say that I have a reputation for being into trees, especially amongst my facebook friends. I post tree pics a lot and used to accompany them with haikus or other short poems. There is something about trees which give me satisfaction and makes being around them so comfortable. I know when I was in East Galway, I indulged. I made daily walks to nearby woods or to the fields opposite the cottage where I was staying and went and sat amongst them. In some way they make me feel small again. As a child, trees were giants, reaching up, impossibly sometimes, into the sky, home to that other joy of mine: the birds. Now I am old, trees still reach up beyond my consideration – high …
Recently, I was listening to a radio talk from the naturalist and fungi expert Merlin Sheldrake and I was taken by something he said. I paraphrase, “I wondered about the leaf-litter falling slowly over the days and what was causing it, so I mentioned it to my father.” Now Merlin’s father is the author Rupert Sheldrake and he did something with Merlin’s request that I find quite astonishing. He proposed an experiment. Now I won’t go into the details of that here (I am sure it will be mentioned in Merlin’s book “Entangled Life.”) It was not just the fact that Merlin’s dad did something about his child’s curiosity, but that he actually gave a damn in the first place. I’m sure if I had said something similar to my father, he would have just grunted – that is if he had pulled his head out of the back pages of the Daily Mirror in the first place. The fact that Rupert’s interest in biology had been similarly nurtured by his father may have had something to do with it, but the fact remains that he was there for his son and took his interest seriously. I will write another post about what it was like to be the child of a compulsive gambler and how that may have affected my gambling “career” but as an older man, working through what has happened in my life, trees represent my chance to father myself. Later this fostered a sadness on what my father missed out on … but I digress. When I get out amongst them and marvel at the colours, smells, sounds and nuances … I remind myself that not only am I old enough to be the father I never had, but now also the grandfather (my father’s father died before I was born.) I imagine what it must be like to have been taken out by an old man with a stick, one who loves trees, knows fuck all about them, but is willing to indulge the little boy by looking up some of the strange lichen that they find – or rooting about for strange fungi in the leaf litter. As Freud said, “the child is father to the man” and every trip to the woods takes me back to my 9 year old self finding wonder in the birch woods north of Irlam.
Irlam is near to Chat Moss, a peat bog close to Manchester. It is talked of in hushed tones by railway enthusiasts who tell that the first commercial railway in the world – the Liverpool to Manchester line – had to cross Chat Moss and because the ground was so soggy the line had to be placed on wooden ramparts.
The area includes woods, mainly birch (if I recall correctly) but I think there were other taller trees there and lots of bushes and interesting undergrowth. That was my playground for the short time I lived there. I did all my exploring on my own. Although I had a few friends living near me, they were more interested in playing “superheroes” in the garden and annoying the neighbours rather than going out into the woods. I also remember being taken up with the “Enchanted Wood” and “The Magic Faraway Tree,” books by Enid Blyton, which indulged my imagination with tall tales of fantastic lands at the top of the highest tree in the wood. The woods at Chat Moss are more mundane but were magical to me. I guess partly because they took me away from my day-to-day existence. Even at the age of 9, I was looking for places where I could be on my own, where I could give myself space to be.
So in a lot of ways, my indulgence of trees in Galway was reminding myself that I am important and that I can give myself space to be me again … and I can keep doing this, whether it be in Galway, Dolphinton, Vannes or any of the other places where woods abound, inviting the 9 – cum – 63 year old Steev in. In short this was taking me back to a time before my stint with gambling, almost doing a factory reset of myself.
I am aware that people have asked me for a blog post on trees. All I can do is to try and talk about them and my connection to them. In addition put up some reasonable pictures of some of my favourites from that time. But I can’t expose you to the sound of the wind blowing through, the punctuated call of rooks or the stirrings of something small and timid in the undergrowth. I can’t connect you to the feel of slime on the barks; or that smell – earthy, rotting, full – that comes from the roots and the ground that the roots clutch. All I can do is inspire you to go out to your nearest wood and embrace the trees and to get in touch with your child – experience again the comfort of father wood.
All the pictures were taken by Steev in East Galway, around Newbridge and Mountbellow ~ April 2019.
Comments
Hi Steev
Lovely blog, I could almost smell the woods and hear the wind.
I love trees and I too do not know many different species names.
Since I started to learn to draw and paint, trees amongst them, I now really notice so much more detail. They make me feel spiritual and peaceful.
When I had a difficult few years between 8-10yrs old, I used to walk up to the woods for hours on my own, and pick wild flowers. Kids today wouldn’t be allowed, solitary fantasies of being someone else with a desired family gave me some escape and solace. And I used to make miniature gardens in the lid of an old biscuit tin lid.
I’m glad you’re valuing yourself, I know I value you and I know lots of other people who do as well. Love n hugs 💕😘
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