February 15th 2014





MEMORIES OF AN ANCIENT OAK.





I took a walk a few days ago, leaving Kirkham Abbey my route brought me by various paths eventually to a small wood on the edge of the Castle Howard estate. A weathered wooden gate, knotted and corroded, hanging drunkenly on a crooked post at the edge of the wood lurched open on to a worn muddy path that slithered down a gentle slope bringing me shortly to a huge and ancient Oak tree, massive and magnificent.

 Kim was particularly fond of trees just like this one, she would pause a moment and marvel at its great age, contemplating the things it has witnessed, wondering what events have taken place in it's life time, how the surrounding countryside looked when it was a mere sapling, what the world was once like and the changes that have taken place. She would try to imagine who had passed by, had sheltered from bad weather beneath it's boughs, sought the refuge of it's leafy canopy from a scorching sun, leaned a work weary back against it's reliable and sturdy trunk, maybe it was a rendezvous for lovers, or a playground for children, a landmark, a milestone, all these things, maybe and more.

 It towered over me as I stood silently beneath, looking up, a cloudless, deep blue, winter sky emphasised it's nakedness, stiff branches shivered in the fresh breeze that blew coldly from the North, quickly robbing any heat that the listless winter sun might produce, it made a low roar as it rushed through the arthritic, twisted branches, bent and gnarly. The coarse rugged bark, rutted and crevassed deep enough to get a hand between the folds, is weathered almost to black. Each of its main limbs is equally thick as the adjacent trees, many of which are the seeded offspring of this noble parent. Ghostly among the boughs, dead limbs wither on the tree, as round as a man's thigh, the bark stripped away exposing bone grey skeleton, split and cracked, streaked mossy green and stained earthy brown, corruption and decay consume and weaken the stark, rotting arms until the mournful day a winters gale sends them crashing earthwards to join others resting on a comfortless bed of cold blackened, wet leaves, spent and lifeless forms, crumbling slowly into the soft loam around the base. A yellow dog appeared on the path ahead of me approaching at a steady pace with an inquisitive manner about it, ears alert, head held high it pushed its nose into my waiting hands, I scratched it's chin and behind its ear, unexpectedly glad of its friendly attention, satisfied it trotted on towards the rickety gate. Its owner haled a cheery greeting as he passed moments later red faced and glowing. The raw wind made eyes water and noses run, I turned up my collar as unwelcome fingers of cold rudely intruded into my clothing, cloying mud clung to my boots and spattered my trouser legs, I hunched my shoulders and turned my back to the wind reaching out to feel the rough bark beneath my hand, not ready to move on yet, I lingered.

 This majestic tree has it's own story, a long and complex one with many chapters spanning centuries, not a single soul in this world knows of it; not all of it: I know one tiny bit of it; I know that one day, one hot, sunny, summers day, when the birds were singing in the trees and Blue Tits flitted busily amongst the green leaves chittering incessantly, far away a Woodpecker's laughing call filtered through the hot scented foliage, while a Jay's startled squawk sounded a warning nearby. In that sweet sunlit glade twinkling gossamer snares tangled dazzling sunbeams in the spaces beneath the trees, a bright ribbon of clear, cool water glittered a myriad points of silver light as it tumbled a tinkling symphony over clean gravel between soft clay banks luxuriously draped with the lush green foliage of Comfrey, Foxglove, Harts Tongue Fern, Bracken, Bramble and a dozen other woodland plants. Damsel Flies flashed blue bolts of lightening across the waters tireless surface, synchronised Midges vibrated a complex choreography in slanting shafts of dusty sunlight whilst gaudily striped Hover Flies hung rock solid in the air suspended on near invisible wings, first here, then over there, then here again. The low drone of a Bumble Bee accompanied it's clumsy, stumbling pollen search, dusted yellow and leg pouches stuffed full, it bumped sleepily into each heavy blossom. The breathless air throbbed with nature’s ineluctable energy.

On that day, in dappled shade, Kim rested on a soft green log its edges made indistinct with cushions of fat Moss, a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her brow, her face rosy and healthy from exertion. She smiled, her clear eyes quick and lively, she cocked her head to one side, as a broad chested Robin, alighted on a quivering, slender twig a short distance away and mimicked her, in a breath it flitted to the ground and vigorously scattered velvet, ochrous leaves into the still warm air. Beneath this beautiful tree, marvelling at it's stunning grandeur, Kim began to picture some of the people who back through the ages had found themselves in this very same place, what circumstance delivered them here, to this tree? She sat and pondered its story, I sat beside her on that soft cushion, our shoulders touching, I felt her warmth, her presence, her strength, I shared her musings, her happiness, together we shared our lunch; we shared our lives; we shared that day, that moment. We shared a deep love that spilled out of us and touched everything in that sweet sunlit glade.

 I remember that day from some years ago, its details are etched indelibly into my memory, along with many others; it has become internalised, it's a part of me, a part of who I am, it's a part of my story. The Earth turns and whether we want it to or not the sun rises each morning, we shoulder our burden and another day begins, the story goes on. For a brief moment three stories became entwined, Kim's story, my own and the story of that noble and ancient Oak tree.

 I love and miss you forever Kim.