Mess with the ancient forests at your peril

THERE’S more chance of getting blood from a stone than there is of hearing bird song in the largely monoculture commercial forests that blanket the hills and land around this country town. And a great many county councils countrywide still seem keen to find excuses to fell and hack our mature trees.

What a contrast to a few centuries ago when we appreciated our abundant woods for their diverse riches. For they gifted us much more than just timber, with native forests used for farming, their glades and clearings providing rough pasture for cattle, while great herds of pigs fed upon the acorns of the ample oaks.

Our woods were also havens for wildlife, tradition telling of stretches of trees so vast that a squirrel could travel from Glenquin in Limerick to Labbamolaga in Cork without putting a paw on the ground — instead of trying to cross today’s treacherous roads that stack the odds against such creatures, wasting many as they are reduced to roadkill.

We also knew how to touch wood when it came to our health, with the leaves, bark and clay around tree roots used to treat everything from coughs to toothache.

It’s hardly surprising if theology, too, has something to say about our trees of life, given the pivotal importance of a certain apple tree in a gorgeous garden. The elder was apparently a sweetsmelling tree until Judas hanged himself on it. While a fire made from the ash tree, which is commonly found in churchyards and at holy wells, can banish the devil.

And there’s a touch of the road to Damascus in the tale of a robber who used to carry a stout hazel cudgel with which to batter his victims — until the day he came upon a ford on the river and saw a man waisthigh in the water, holding a similar hazel staff in his hand. This true believer had vowed to stand there until God granted him a sign — to show he merited Heaven — by causing the staff to sprout leaves.

The robber was so astounded by this piety that he hopped into the river beside the holy hermit. Next morning, his cudgel was growing green leaves, for his repentance was sincere and there was no pride in his heart. He spent the rest of his life in good works, leaving the would-be saint still saturated in the river, no doubt grimly reflecting upon God’s mysterious ways.

But it’s the Franciscans versus the tree fellers when it comes to the yew planted in Muckross Abbey in 1408. It is still standing, helped by the tradition that says the yew is one of the trees that must not be cut on any account.

One of Cromwell’s soldiers lived long enough to scoff at such superstition. He took the axe to one for firewood and was so shocked to see blood flowing from it that he dropped dead — making me wonder if we could protect our trees by renaming them all after this particular species. For the thought “it could be yew” — in all the wrong ways — might scare those saws away.