The Queen Beech

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.”

William Blake

As a restless colicky baby, my most reliable solace was to be parked in my pram beneath the whispery silver birch in the garden. When I grew older, and was allowed to explore the cul-de-sac in which we lived, the limit of my territory was the mighty elm tree opposite our house. It had long preceded the tarmac pavement from which it now burst and heaved. I grew to know and love Ethel the Elm, with her coarse greying twisted bark and raspy toothed leaves reaching up into her massive swishy canopy. Ethel was a good listener. Not long after I left home in the sixties, Dutch elm disease took out dear Ethel, and she took all my young secrets with her.

As I grew older, my terrain expanded, and I was allowed to enter the neighbouring park, and tootle along the path on my scooter. But only as far as the pair of elderly oak trees that stood sentinel where the trail led beyond to zone three and the big kids’ playground. I bonded deeply with these two as I scrambled among their low broad branches to hide and pretend to be a squirrel, and drop acorns on passers-by. In them I could unleash the fantasy adventures I had explored in my favourite book, The Faraway Tree. And in the long years after I was allowed to venture beyond them, I always acknowledged them and their kindly watchfulness. They still feature from time to time in my dreams. Just before my mother died, one of them was arbitrarily felled as its branches were perceived to pose a threat to passers by. It was painfully poignant to shuffle past the starkly lone survivor with my grieving father. Within two years, both of them were also gone, and I had nothing to return to.

Unsurprisingly, I continue to count certain trees amongst my best friends. They are frequently solitary. One in particular - my Queen Beech - won my heart on our first encounter in Wales in the sixties …

… in the late18th century, under the spell of the beautiful Ystwyth Valley, the indomitable spirit of an early philanthropist, Thomas Johnes, conceived his Hafod ‘project’. Having inherited some 500 acres of raw landscape, he spent the prime years of his life and his entire assets attempting to create a remote utopian abode. His is a long and sorry saga of faith and misfortune, tenacity and broken dreams, but that is another story ..

He planted some three million trees. Many grand old beeches still stand forested together along the flanks of the valley, but one proud matriarch stands broad and splendid, alone in the void of the sheep nibbled pastures that are all that remain of the once noble lawns. Her spirit feeds on the rich westerly vista on behalf of the yearning vision of her long dead benefactor. And she stands guard over the rubbled ruins of his dream home that lay strewn behind her. Just one of the survivors of the multitude planted, she is tall and noble and beautifully proportioned, ravishing in all seasons. In summertime, her low skirts flounce and caress the soft pasture at her feet, creating a glorious shaded hideaway. She bursts up out of a broad base of sprawling gnarly roots. A rich tangle of wooden veins, swathed and cushioned in verdant mosses, provide a snuggly bum-shaped niche for my visits, with multiple cosy pockets and cwtches for beech nut husks and shy mouselings and weary faeryfolk. I took my newborn son to meet her, and have often sought her ancient counsel and transference of energy over the years. Long may she stand, and many may she comfort and inspire.

Science now almost reluctantly acknowledges trees to be social and sentient Beings that Know Things. Beings that communicate and socialise through a complex of earthy capillaries and fungal networks to warn and advise, to nurture and befriend. To share the wisdoms of their many millenia. Beings that bear witness to our blind arrogance and foolhardiness. Beings that no doubt forewarn and comfort one another when the heartless hard hats arrive with their snarling chainsaws. 

Just yield to the simple act of introducing yourself to a tree when you find yourself in the uncomfortable throes of wondering wtf’s it all about? And trust them to ground you, connect you through their reliable internet system, and hopefully give you a significant clue to The Answer.

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