Why felling old trees is an arrogant assault on our history

SOMETHING happened last week that made me rather sad. The 600-year-old Bretton Oak, near Peterborough, one of the last survivors of Grimeshaw Woods, an ancient forest that once covered much of that part of the world, was felled after final desperate attempts to save it failed.

This ancient tree, which had stood since the reign of Henry VI, was ripped apart by men with hi-vis jackets and chainsaws in a matter of minutes, to the horror of many locals. Its crime? The roots were allegedly causing ‘structural damage’ to nearby housing. Although, as one resident pointed out, that case was debatable.

No matter. Insurance companies were refusing to underwrite the affected properties, and so the man from the council decreed that the oak had to go. Six centuries of history, a living organism that had outlasted kings, queens, plagues, war and famine, felled by petty bureaucracy.

Oh, it’s just an old tree, I hear you say. And yes, it is – or was. But the thing about ancient trees is that they are not just old, knarly bits of wood. They are a living connection to the past. Their bark bears the marks of many generations. Their roots and branches mark the passing of the decades.

They are, in many cases, astonishingly beautiful, living sculptures in our green and pleasant land. And unlike humans, they ask very little from their environment. Indeed, if anything they enrich it: the soil, the air, the countless generations of animals and insects that live among their leaves.

I must confess, I’ve always had a thing about trees, ever since I was a child. My favourite children’s book was Enid Blyton’s The Faraway Tree, about a series of revolving worlds at the top of a magical tree in an enchanted wood. When my father read me The Lord Of The Rings, I fell in love with Treebeard, last of the mighty Ents, described by Gandalf as ‘the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-earth’. In middle age, as life has presented its challenges, trees have once again become my escape. When it all gets too much, I get in my car and I go ancient treehunting. I seek them out – by rivers, in fields, in churchyards – and I spend time with them.

This may sound batty, and maybe it is, but they bring me great comfort and solace.

They are like old souls, wise and gentle, a reminder that, good or bad, everything passes – and ultimately, nothing really matters, certainly not success or money or whether the barista makes your flat white just so.

Some reside in splendour in National Trust glory, tended to by expert horticulturists, others grow wild in the most unlikely of places – in people’s gardens, by the side of roads, in the corners of fields.

Last week, the Woodland Trust published research indicating that there are between 1.7 and 2.1 million trees of ‘great age’ across Britain, only about 115,000 of which have been recorded.

Like the poor old Bretton Oak, very few have any legal protection, although some – such as the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest (around 1,000 years old) and Big Belly in Savernake Forest (which would have been an acorn around

RECENTLY my phone has stopped recognising my Face ID in the mornings. I can only conclude that this is because, like all women of a certain age, it takes my features a while to rearrange themselves into the correct order after a night buried in a pillow. Truly, there is no end to the humiliations of growing old.

1066) – are famous enough to be immune from the attentions of town planners.

Everyone loves an oak, of course, but there are many others.

Some, such as birches, are defined as ancient once they get to the age of mere 150. Yews, on the other hand, are practically classified as teenagers until around the age of 800. Some in this country are thought to date back to the Bronze Age. One of my favourites is the Defynnog Yew, which lives in a unprepossessing churchyard in the Brecon Beacons. As wide as it is tall, it is so old the trunk has split, so now it looks like two trees – but it is in fact one.

Climb inside the belly of this gentle giant, as I have done, and you will feel a stillness and a peace like no other. If I could choose anywhere to draw my last breath, it would be in the soft caress of its mossy woodiness. There is a reason so many churches are built where these extraordinary trees grow: there is something deeply spiritual about them.

Why do we protect our ancient buildings and not our trees? Why are we so arrogant as to think bricks and mortar matter more than a creature that was alive when we were still grubbing in the dust?

Our ancient trees are part of our culture and history. We should honour them for the giants they are.