The mighty oak
Charismatic, emblematic, a great walking companion all year round.
ALF A MILE from my house, a path leads up a shallow rise. That ridge is probably the highest bit of land in an easterly direction for many hundreds of miles and come winter, it’s a bleak place. Yet, as if frozen in time, a world-weary column of oak trees lines the path, as if they themselves are climbing the hill. They’re some of the most characterful trees I know and I see them most days as I walk my patch. Week in, week out, under the glare of the summer sun or the pale light of a winter moon, they are the rocks in my world.
I live in the east of England, on thick clay soils, and therefore my oaks are English, or more properly, pedunculate. That means the acorns grow on long stalks, while the leaves are stalkless. In the west of
Britain, the sessile oak reigns supreme and it has the opposite arrangement with acorns tight to the branch and leaves on stems. Given space, pedunculate oaks branch from low down on the trunk, creating a huge crown.
Oaks have had significance for humankind for thousands of years. Worshipped and exploited, the trees can still be found in large numbers, though in years gone by, the demands of ship-building meant they were jealously guarded and relentlessly felled. I live not far from a once grand estate and the proliferation of oaks here is, I suspect, something to do with its one time owner’s influence on the area. But I’m not interested in the long human history of the oak, but in its own perpetual present.
WINTER
There is nothing darker than moon shadow, particularly among trees. Above me, oak branches spider-web into the night sky, locked in their winter torpor. The freezing air that surrounds us can’t find the one thing it is seeking: the tree’s sap. This is safely buried in the roots, away from the malignant air’s icy intentions. Without sap, the branches are brittle and vulnerable to the wind, even though they shed their leaves months ago. But these edifices of cellular activity stand resolute, as if those cells have tightened and almost turned to stone. Standing facing an oak’s trunk, I can’t help but feel my gaze drawn down to the ground, as if my subconscious knows where the life in this tree is: all around me, under my feet.
Three weeks later and I can’t even see my hill, let alone the trees. A blizzard is white-washing the brownness of the winter field as I struggle, head bowed, into the wind-blown flakes. A few paces
closer and there they are, the dark outlines of familiar beings. The wind in the form of snow lies pasted against them, and only the outer edges of the trunks remain clear, where the wind whips around the sides. The world of my oaks is changing in the most literal of ways, right before my eyes.
Nine days further into winter and the snow is gone. It lasted for four days and nights, then it sank into the earth, bathing the oaks’ roots in the softest of ablutions. It is startlingly bright. The glare of a winter sun in the middle of the day is sharp-edged, yet never gaudy and unflattering like its summer cousin. A male kestrel flies from the nearest oak – not fast, but leisurely. Clearly irritated at my presence it lands in the next tree along. I stop under the branches of the first tree and watch him; he is, after all, part of the oak’s life. He loses interest in me and soon his head is bobbing from side to side: he’s clearly seen something on the ground between the tree’s bare branches. A russet flash, as if a stubborn autumn leaf has decided late winter is the time to seek the ground, means the kestrel could resist temptation no longer. In the rank, washedout grass on the side of the ditch below the tree, the kestrel holds its prey, mantling its wings to keep its prize from my view. It makes quick work of its meal. Moments later it flies off, six inches from the ground, over the fields to the east, before swooping suddenly up to the top most branch of another oak, as if taking a message from tree to tree. ▶
“...oaks line the path, as if they too are climbing the hill. They’re the know.” most characterful trees I
SPRING
No two springs are alike. This one is cold and dry and my daily walk of three or four miles doesn’t seem to be affected by any seasonal change. Then one day, I’m stopped in my tracks. The Ghost Oak (I’ve started naming the more characterful trees – see p43) is undeniably starting to bud. The twigs on the outer branches now end in little round lumps. How have they got to this stage without me noticing?
Things warm up for a week or so and the oaks really start to move. From the top of the low rise above my village, every oak tree I see is coated in a plume of acid-green yellow flowers, little catkins crowned by freshly emerging leaves, themselves cradled by the red of split bud casings. The flowers comprise both male parts (catkins) and female ones (small red flowers on short stalks). The catkins release pollen into the air, with the hope some of it will find a female flower.
The clouds in the sky, billowy and white, are echoed through the landscape by the multitude of oaks that have seemingly erupted like atom bombs only days before. All is joyous. The air itself seems full of spring frivolity, careering around like a lamb in a meadow. Oxygen levels are up. The trees’ sap must also be well and truly risen, as energy stores within the tree are plundered to kickstart this reawakening of life.
I don’t ever really stop on my springtime wanderings: there is too much urgency and summer is the time for stopping. Warm spring gales are the uninvited guest of this particular day’s walk. Some branches just gently sway, but neighbouring ones whirl and twist and catkins litter the ground. Everything about the air is dynamic but the oaks seem to be coping: there are no branches down.
“The
clouds in the sky, billowy and white, are echoed by the multitude of oaks that have erupted
bombs.” like atom