Land: Essex 7

1st December, 2020

When I first read about how trees communicate with each other I felt a kind of knowing — as if I somehow had an inkling of this already. I recall that the discovery was met with surprise in the scientific community and I can see why — the notion of trees being able to look after and manage themselves and their community went against all that western thinking had determined about nature. Seeing ourselves as the most intelligent and advanced species on the planet, we approach nature as if it is ‘the other’, and in our fear of its power and our own ignorance, we attempt to control every aspect of it. We used to cut trees down, assuming that new trees would not grow if the larger, older trees blocked out the sunlight. Now it is understood that trees cooperate and allow other trees to grow, in fact, an elder tree might even support younger trees by passing nutrients through the fungal, mycelium networks in the understory. I was fascinated to read in Gary Ferguson’s wonderful book Eight Master Lessons of Nature that when an elder tree is dying, it will ‘send extra doses of her own carbon to young relatives and may at the same time stimulate defense mechanisms in these youngsters.’ This idea of trees as caring elders resonates oddly with my being. I know the importance of such care and how its lack has horrible consequences for us humans. Trees know this it would seem. The standing people. Indigenous peoples from North America call trees the standing people. Standing against trees is something I often find myself doing — leaning back against the ancient bark of an old oak tree, or leaning into the smooth bark of a birch tree. it is comforting, reassuring and calming. Recently, I can be found whiling away time just leaning, looking up into the canopy as leaves flutter and fall above me. Birds alight. Birds take flight. Above in the overstory. The trunk of the tree connecting the earth to the sky.

It was a beautiful day today. I saw the blue sky when I woke and smiled. This was a perfect day for walking in the Forest. I was in a rush to get going — I wanted to be bold and explore Bury Wood some more. I checked the map before leaving — I could see how the designated path ran alongside the edge of the Wood so that however far I walked I would always be able to return. I noted where Cuckoo Brook began and where it led, aware that if I followed the water I would always find my way to Connaught Water. I was determined to walk further into the green this time and I set off as soon as I had boiled some eggs and made a flask of coffee, so as to not miss the light — which fades fast at this time of year. The journey was remarkable — I jumped on a bus that appeared as soon as I arrived at the bus stop — the train arrived as soon as I reached the platform. In next to no time I was there — warmly wrapped and ready for an adventure. Walking from the station there was a distinct spring in my step. I rushed across the road and made my way across the Plain, eager to step inside the canopy and begin. The trees spread out before me — shades of brown and beige edge up to the green grass, bright from all the rain. Change happens fast, I think as I pause to take a photo before entering.

The light is dappled in here — stripes of sunlight reach out across the Forest floor. The leaves underfoot are orange now and the mud does not suck me in as it did last week. I walk without concern. I think of nothing except this. Immersing myself I move into and out of the light; there is no evidence of human activity here today. It is quiet. I am quiet too — no chatter inside my head — no angst about where I am going. I am here and that, I realise with delight, is enough. I cross the path and move into Bury Wood, where the trees seem different. Not as tall, they create shapes unlike anything I have seen before. They are like creatures: the standing people. Lichen and moss has appeared — new and fresh it brings green to the brown and orange scene before me, catching my eye as I walk around and through, exploring clearings and sapling circles, admiring the fallen trunks where strange fungi sprouts and the bark crumbles. I sit on a trunk wondering just how long it has been here, lying on the Forest floor. Maybe a hundred years or so. I see a small ceramic plaque placed at the base of an old tree. The words are: Special Daughter. Always in Our Thoughts, Forever in Our Hearts. Ashes to ashes, tree to tree. Heart to heart.

I see no one. No one sees me — but the trees. They know I am here. Among them again. I keep walking until I hear the road. I can see through the trees that there are some houses ahead and I recall walking this way during the summer. I realise that as the leaves have fallen, I can see what is ahead — the way is clearer now. I can see that the path is nearby. I continue alongside the path until I reach the Brook. It is a delight to behold. Gently moving over the gravel and stones it meanders, twists and turns. I can see that its course is not smooth, that it has wended its way through the earth over time. That it flows. I walk in the direction of its flow and find self in places that look familiar — there is the wooden bridge, and ahead is the fallen tree that reaches across the water. I cross. I sit. I have a brief chat with a woman walking her puppy and I find the intrusion of another person into the silence of my day makes me smile. Communicating. Like the trees. The sunlight is touching the tops of the trees on the hill before me and the colour of their trunks change: brown to beige, to golden. This is a golden day I think as I pause to just look. To observe. To see. To listen. Can I hear what the trees are saying? Are they talking to me? As I walk, I place the palm of my hand on the trunks that I pass. I am connecting, communicating. Or at least that is what I am imagining. Today. This is a golden day.

I follow the Brook until I almost reach Connaught Water. I turn around and go back the way I came, as I want to stay with the trees, immersed. Bolder now, I know where I am and there is still time to walk some more — it is still light. I delight in walking on the opposite bank of the Brook until I reach the broken wooden bridge, with the red tape pulled away so you can easily step across. I step lightly avoiding the split wood at the centre and wend my way back around the holly to find the track I know — the track that takes me past the ferns, now entirely brown. I touch them and am surprised to find them as dry as paper in my hands. Yet green shoots are emerging out of the ground and I am struck by the awareness that both new life and old life coexist. Death and birth. Two sides of the same coin. Nothing ever really dies. Not in the Forest anyway. It is recycled, reused, regrown, transformed into something new. The eternal circle of all things. Here we go again. Around and around. I walk around the clearing where the huge fallen trees create sculptural shapes. I walk back into Bury Wood, sitting again and waiting for the light to begin to fade. I will leave only when I have to. I wish I could stay but the birds settling in the treetops above me remind me that the day is ending, dusk is falling and I watch as the setting sun twinkles through the bare branches of the trees before me.

Finally I rise and walk out onto the Plain. It is beautiful. I take a photo of what remains of the setting sun. I look behind me at the trees. I say a silent farewell. I walk across the Plain and head towards the coloured lights from the main road. I stop before finally walking back to the station, plotting my next visit. I will walk across the Golf course to Hawk Wood next time. Another adventure. Another day among the trees, walking, looking, listening. I still have much to learn.

As I journey back to the city, I look at the photos I have taken. Memories. Images to hold. But the images in my head are more powerful. They connect me to my actual lived experience, whereas the photos are observations, curiosities, triggers that connect me to this day. This golden day in the Forest.

It has taken me a huge effort to write this today. It feels like a betrayal almost. A sharing that is not entirely necessary. I am aware of my need to document, reflect, collecting images and memories as if without them I would forget. I will not forget this day though. Is it that I am now more present when I visit the Forest. Is that why the act of reflecting seems less important? Or is it that I am getting to know the Land, becoming rooted, connected to the place. Maybe it is that I am getting to know the trees, to understand something of their language, their ways of speaking, of telling their stories. Maybe if I listen very carefully I will be able to make sense of what it is they are telling me. Maybe. I will wait with anticipation for my next visit. It will be soon.