Land: Essex 8

January 21st 2021

I cannot quite believe how long it is since I walked in the Forest. I am disapointed with myself — my plan was to visit once a week, but things have been rather strange lately and restrictions and lockdowns have affected everything, mood included. How is it possible to remain positive and hopeful about life when everything is curtailed, prevented from flowering, held in a state of suspension? It has been truly miserable. Still, I did manage to walk with an artist friend before the December restrictions came in and again with my daughter and granddaughter over the New Year. It is different walking with others. My attention wanders and conversations unfurl. People and dogs and children and avoiding bogs take priority. No silence in my head. No silence at all. But even then, on occasion I was able to tune in and just be. I am getting better at just being. I am less. I am simpler somehow.

I was reminded by my artist friend of an artist we met at a party, who had done some research into the trees near Pompeii. Apparently, before the volcano erupted, the mycelium networks in the understory had told others in their tree community about the impending catastrophe. At the time, I had been doing some research into time loops and the human capacity to see the future, and what with the wine and the party atmosphere this was what I held onto — trees can see the future. How amazing I thought at the time and then I completely forgot about it until I told my artist friend about the conkers falling and she reminded me. Note to self – I must contact the artist and find out more.

Over the last few weeks, I have been reading a book called The Songs of Trees by David George Haskell. When I first starting reading it I assumed that it would tell me about how trees communicated but I was wrong. It told me about the noises that trees and the animals and people around them make — the sound of falling rain on leaves, the sound of insects burrowing into them, the sound of human chatter and traffic nearby, the sound of birds, perching to sing on the branches. I had hoped to find evidence that trees do speak to us. I had hoped to confirm that the trees speak to me; that they can see what is going to occur. But instead, I had to accept that I was imagining things, hoping for magical things, hoping. I spend a lot of time these days hoping.

When I was walking with my granddaughter, we kept to the paths mostly and walked along them with other families and dog walkers. It was busy on the day we walked. Finding ourselves on a path I had not walked before, we saw a giant oak tree, set back a little and in a clearing — there were no trees nearby. I realised that this was Grimston’s Oak — it is thought to be the oldest oak tree in the Forest, about 350 years old. It was originally called Cuckoo Oak, then in the 1870’s it was named Bedford’s Oak, in honour of J. T. Bedford, who fought to save the Forest from destruction. Grimston was a nineteenth century cricketer, but why the oak then became named after him I have no idea. I think that I am going to call it Bedford’s Oak. I had to walk through boggy puddles to reach its trunk, which was huge. I spotted a sheet of paper pinned on one side of the trunk and looked up to read it. It was a eulogy to a lost loved one and I turned away without reading it all. I did not want to think of loss on that day. I wanted to think of love and joy and how amazing it was that something should live for so long, transcending our little lives. Trees have special meanings for lots of people it seems, whether or not they actually talk to us, we seem to use them as conduits to talk to each other, and to hear things we might not have ordinarily heard. I will listen more closely. I know that this is something I can do. If I can quieten the noise in my head that is.

Over Christmas we escaped the city and went to Devon, staying on the edge of Exmoor, close to the sea. The house we rented was above the small town of Braunston, with expansive views over the dunes towards the estuary. It was a joy to watch the huge skies as the sun rose and set, as the moon played hide and seek with the clouds. Storm clouds rolled around above us and the wind howled — at other times it was so peaceful I could hear my own breath and the twit-twoo of the owls hiding in the trees below. Behind the house there was one enormous tree whose bare branches cut shapes across the sky. I sat and watched it swaying as night fell. I awoke one night at 4am. Looking out of the window I felt as if I was in a Vincent Van Gogh painting. The stars hung low in the sky, just out of reach. They shone so brightly I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. And the day we drove to Exmoor and walked to Heddon’s Mouth was just a total joy.

Oliver Rackham tells me that unusually, when Exmoor Forest was compartmentalised, all wooded areas were excluded. As such it is a huge moorland, with some of the highest cliffs in Britain protruding above the many coves and bays on the North Devon coast. On our walk alongside the River Heddon, swollen and roaring past us at a furious rate, I saw many small trees, ancient and gnarled, covered in lichen and mosses. The landscape felt ancient. When we reached the river mouth, the elements spoke. Wind blew fast and furiously from the Atlantic. Pebbles and huge rocks that had fallen from the cliffs blocked our way, and the noise of the waves was so loud that my ears buzzed. It was exciting. But Devon is not a land of trees and I found myself missing them as I wandered through the dunes and on huge expansive beaches.

This week has been difficult. I almost went to the Forest earlier in the week but I sat at home reading and thinking instead. Thinking about vibrations, sound, energy and the notion that all matter is energy and all energy is sound. Today however, I need a break from scientific discourse and singing bowls. Today I need to be with the trees. The day is bright — at least it is brighter than it has been all week. It has rained a lot lately. The ground will be boggy. I prepare. I set off later than I had intended but still there will be time. Already, the day does not end so swiftly. Already the days are longer. Soon it will be Spring. But today it is cold and windy. The Forest will be sheltering I think as I make a flask of coffee and dig out my warm scarf. The journey is easy and before I know it I am walking out of the station and across the road to the Golf Course. I am going to walk over the green today, up into what the map tells me is Hawk Wood. From there I can cut across the road into Bury Wood. The sky is white. Clouds hang heavily over the brown tree tops stretching as far as I can see. It feels like rain.

A small dog makes a dash for me, barking furiously. ‘Layla! Layla! — it’s alright, she won’t bite.’ I say something pleasant but the dog owner ignores me and I walk quickly, trying to get away. My feet sink into boggy grass — I have to watch where I am walking when all I want to do is look at the stark outlines of the trees up ahead, contrasting dramatically with the white sky. Hawk Wood has trees of all shapes and sizes. It feels different to the other parts of the Forest I have visited and it feels strange. I feel strange. Out of sorts somehow, as if I am in an unknown, unfamiliar place. Other walkers cross ahead of me, heads down, no eye contact or communication. I walk off the path and risk losing my boots in the mud underfoot. I am not enjoying this place. I try to imagine the trees with leaves on and how different they would seem. Birds perch high on the bare branches and they sing. I listen but the sound of the passing cars intrudes and irritates. I do not pause long and walk swiftly towards the road. I get stuck in some brambles trying to avoid the mud but I find my way to the road, crossing quickly to enter the Forest and immerse myself. Here is familiar. Here are the holly saplings, the leaves crunching underfoot — the vast expanse of trees unfurls before me. I breathe out. I realise that I have not been breathing properly since I returned from Devon. It is like I am holding my breath. As if I dare not breath out. As if I cannot breath in. Grief sits in the lungs, according to Chinese medicine, and this is something I know, for I have struggled to breath for a long time now. Sometimes I can find a way to relax my diaphragm and let the air sink down to my belly. Sometimes I can breath out and not panic about breathing in. I know that being with the trees will help. I walk aimlessly, avoiding the dog walker I can see through the trees ahead and the muddy tracks. This is where I need to be. The familiar.

In winter the Forest is very still. I lean on trees and feel nothing. No vibration beneath the bark. Silently, the trees stand. I cannot tell which are dead and which are alive. Bark has fallen, or has been stripped and the shapes of the trunks seem to imitate human shapes, bulking in places and elegant and long in others. The standing people welcome me and I move among them, deftly avoiding the few evergreen saplings that stretch out in the gaps between the trees. There is the trunk I sat on when I visited before. There is the patch of ferns, stark and brown without their foliage they seem to be hovering, waiting for the light to return and revive them. There is the swing hanging but how different it looks in winter. I can see the blue nylon cord from a distance, unlike in the autumn when leaves hid it from view. And there is the broken bridge crossing Cuckoo Brook. I see a man walking through the holly saplings. Whether he is avoiding me I cannot say but he gets caught up in the brambles and beats them away with his walking staff. He does say hello and I appreciate the moment before moving on, finding a fallen trunk to sit on for a while.

Sitting here the trees around me start to look strange. There one is lying down, reclining almost, patches of white fungi sitting in the creases and cracks. Over there I see an imaginary creature, bent on its knees it reaches out for something I cannot see. Branches lie strewn around and the mud here is a deep sticky black colour, like treacle. The Forest in winter is a quiet and strange place. I drink coffee and look up at the tops of the trees, where the light hovers. The day is drawing to a close and I make my way back through the holly, finding a familiar track that will take me back to the edge. As I walk I recall reading about an experiment undertaken in India. The researcher was considering the affect of sound on living things and whether it was possible to change things through using only sound. One of the experiments involved shouting angrily at a tree for ten minutes every day. After a period of time, the tree completely dried out — it was unable to absorb and retain water as a result. I consider what this means for humans — we are living things and therefore subject to the same affects. My little brother and I grew up in a household where there was a lot of shouting. My parents shouted at each other before he was born and I recall another fact I read about this week — that in vitro, hearing is the first sense we develop. Every single thing I have read about sound tells me that we should not shout at babies or children. Regardless of the words, the energy of that action is damaging. I know that I was damaged by my upbringing. I know that the damage was worse for my brother than for me, but then I had a way to escape. I retreated into my imagination. Maybe I managed to protect myself, but I could not protect him. My mind is busy today as I walk. Working things out. Making sense of things.

Making sense of the land and where I am is easy today. I arrive at the edge of the Forest just as the sun is setting. I can see shades of pink below the bank of white clouds and as I look across the Plain I see the sky darkening. I love this time of day. The light fails and we have to find our way without illumination. I step into deep puddles, unable to avoid them here. The water swills the mud off my boots and I take my time to cross the carpark, reluctant to return to the city. I just miss a train and I sit on the platform for a while, trying to clear my mind and just be. The Forest in winter is stark and beautiful. It is strange and compelling. I look at the photos I have taken as I wait. The photos look a little eerie but that might just be my mood. Reflexive. Pensive. Paused. Waiting. The gloom about me dispels as the train pulls into the station and I enter the brightly lit carriage. I can see nothing out of the train windows as we make our way west. I have walked for hours it seems and I am glad to reach home today and to make some hot tea. It seems less cold now — as if I have found a way to warm the shackles of my heart. The Forest has informed me today. It has taught me much. I have given self permission to let go of guilt. It was not my fault that my brother was damaged. I could barely protect myself, let alone him. Listening to the silence of the Forest, I heard my own thoughts, buried deep within. I let them rise. I let them go. I let them be. I am healing. Slowly I breathe in. I breathe out. Now, I can just be.