The Wood for the Trees

by Richard Fortey

  Copepod crustacean Bryocamptus, photographed by Charles Hussey.

  Charles finds one example of his own favourite group of miniature organisms: a rotifer. We are now at the edge of visibility, which I set as the boundary for the Grim’s Dyke Wood project. And there are many smaller creatures in this living soup. Something resembling a microscopic tulip is a protozoan, probably Vorticella, composed of just one cell. Other protists whizz by under the microscope like tiny self-propelled machines, too fast to identify. All these organisms feed on others still smaller, and far too minute to be readily observed beneath Charles’s binocular microscope. Many of these are bacteria—another whole universe of diversity—and much smaller again are viruses. I do not doubt that living and reproducing in the tree pools in my wood are species never named by science. An infinite regression of ever-smaller life forms is revealed. When it rains, millions of tiny things revel briefly in watery profusion in the transitory streams that run down our beech trunks. The soil always heaves with them, and could not exist without them. If anything underlies the real world, these invisible ciphers write the language of complexity, biological motes that interact with, and entrain, everything more complex. No kind of apology is adequate for relegating the “fundamental particles” of biology to little more than a footnote.

  New Growth

  The woodland is stirring. Rosettes of bluebell leaves have fully erupted, and are so dense in a few parts of the wood that all the ground is richly green. The Dell in the middle of Grim’s Dyke is quite the meadow: the special grass that loves beech woods—wood melick—is so lush and bright yellow-green that it is hard to believe its sward will be gone by late summer. Arum leaves are prolific in the shadiest places, precocious wood spurge and celandines are already in flower, and the female flowers of wych elm hang in papery cascades over the path. Wood pigeons perch up there somewhere, calling repeatedly, “Take two pills, David! Take two pills, David!” Beech branches are still completely bare, and pearly light from above filters through them, making jagged graffiti against the bright sky. Soon enough, canopy leaves will open in their turn. The wheel of the seasons turns over and over again. It should all feel timeless, but I now understand that nothing in the wood is untouched by history. This ancient ground has been inextricably intertwined with human employment, and economic imperatives have shaped it as much as arboriculture or squirrels. Even the air carries its own subtle influences from far away. If climate change accelerated, the long reign of the beech tree could be over. Whether I like it or not, our small patch of woodland is a tiny bit of an integrated world, and progressively so since the time of the de Greys. I shudder at the thought of our definitive Chiltern Hills beech trees retreating to moist redoubts, as The New Sylva predicts, but I have to accept that nothing lasts forever, not even ancient woodland.

  Writing on the English countryside is often suffused with another sense of loss. Edward Thomas’s rapt descriptions in The South Country are tinged with sadness, a feeling of the world gone askew, with the ancient English landscape offering a cure for an intolerable, and usually urban, malaise. H. J. Massingham’s Chiltern Country is an eloquent rant against the encroachment of bourgeois values at the cost of the honest skills of wise craftsmen in humble cottages—the “real” people. Massingham mourns the passing of the way “the heavy bearded hills used to look when the works of man were in harmony with them, when Man and Nature made one whole.” The modern world is somehow out of kilter compared with the way things were—when? In medieval times, or in the eighteenth century? It isn’t clear. I beg leave to doubt whether those craftsmen who turned out chair legs by the thousand for a pittance, or the wives who went funny-eyed tatting lace to get food on the table, would have seen matters in the same way. Massingham wonderfully—but madly—suggests that long-term Chiltern natives may have descended directly from the original, pre-Saxon inhabitants, supposing an unbroken lineage that modern genomics would be capable of detecting in a moment were it true. He was deeply in love with the idea of continuity. An underlying emotion in these ruralist writers is allied to one conveyed by A. E. Housman’s famous lines “That is the land of lost content / I see it shining plain.” Plain it may shine, but the land is a fantasy of the past remembered, reworked and rebuilt into a great poem of regret. I sometimes wonder whether Edward Thomas described, or reconstructed, his walks.

  Massingham’s landscape is refracted through the eyes of a posh boy in thrall to a holistic fantasy. Some contemporary nature writing is rich in the details of the author sympathising in some fuzzy way with the totality of nature and the interconnectedness of things, but engagement with the nitty-gritty details of living animals and plants is not on the literary agenda. I prefer the eloquence of detail. I believe that all organisms are as interesting as human beings, and certainly no less important than the observer.

  —

  A SMALL GROUP OF US stand in a circle in the middle of the big clearing. A mass of brambles has been removed, pulled out by the roots, to make a patch of open ground sufficient for planting a tree. I had to purchase a handsomely proportioned young English oak, because an acorn from our own tree would have needed too much time to grow to the right size. We are planting a new oak in memory of a friend who died of cancer. Her family is gathered round, and now the younger members attack the ground with mattock and spade. The clay-with-flints puts up its usual fight. Large knobbly stones heave reluctantly out of the gluey embrace of the orange clay. The spade strikes sparks off a dark broken flint, as it would have done for a Neolithic hunter sharpening his axe-head in the same place millennia before. A liver-coloured pebble reminds us of a time even before the wood, when a frigid climate gripped the whole of Europe. At last, a goodly hole has been excavated. The tree is placed in position, and four stout stakes harvested from our coppiced hazel trees are securely dug in alongside. After the hole has been backfilled and firmed down, the new planting is watered in, and fenced off by attaching a cage of chicken wire to the stakes—it would be too bad if deer damaged the new growth. The tree is in the best place possible, with plenty of blue sky above, and nothing to shade its upward progress. In a century it should be a fine specimen, and in five hundred years it will still be in its prime. But right now it will be a month before the tight oak buds unfurl their fresh leaves. A few words are spoken to formalise the occasion, and everybody is quiet for a minute or two. Birdsong and a faint creaking of boughs supply the only commentary. This, the latest of so many intersections of Grim’s Dyke Wood with human history, is the first one marked by a plaque.

  Cabinet of Curiosity

  Philip Koomen has delivered our collector’s cabinet from Wheelers Barn. It has taken him a month to fashion our cherry timber into a neat case with four drawers, every dovetail joint crafted by hand. The cabinet and the stand on which it rests have been made with clean lines. We discussed handles at some length before rejecting the idea of turned knobs in favour of a kind of wave that grows out of each of the drawers, which are of different sizes to accommodate the finds. These do not make up a systematic collection of the kind I worked with all my life at the Natural History Museum in London. It won’t be catalogued by genus and species. It won’t be arranged in a scientific way. It will be more like the box of small wonders picked up by a child on the beach, the first harvest of curiosity. Nothing in the collection has any monetary value. Each item is a memento of a month in the Grim’s Dyke Wood project. Whenever I look at whatever-it-is the moment of its discovery will be recalled; perhaps it should be described as a recollection, rather than a collection.

  The drawers have internal divisions to separate the memories one from another. The largest object is a flint that fortuitously resembles an ox—the “rother” of Rotherfield Greys, to which the wood was attached for so many centuries. The smallest items are cherry-stones nibbled by a wood mouse and left in a neat store by a tree trunk. Here is that empty thrush egg, blue as the sky on the best day we ever enjoyed. Now come the perfectly round “chalk eggs”—although there
is nothing ornithological about them—that sometimes contain a white paste Dr. Robert Plot recognised more than three hundred years ago; add a tile that Lonny made from the clay in our clay-with-flints. Dried truffles from the roots of a beech tree; a spider’s lair; a gall from our oak tree; a polished section through a holly trunk betraying the secrets of its age in concentric circles; red sandstones from far away and long before the wood was born; knapped flint; mosses in packets—every object has its place. The last item collected is treated with special care: the dormouse nest found a week ago. Into the cabinet goes the small, leather-bound notebook in which I have recorded the seasons passing under the trees: joyful days, moments of discovery, birdsong or tree-felling. The story of Grim’s Dyke Wood goes into a cabinet made from cherry wood nourished in exactly the same place deep within the Chiltern Hills, in our own small and ancient corner of England. The drawers slide closed effortlessly, crafted to secure the memories, feelings and discoveries of a year in the life of our wood. Curiosity is satisfied. For a while.

  Acknowledgements

  My wife, Jackie, has been indispensable to the Grim’s Dyke Wood project. Not only did she spot the wood for sale in the first place, but she enjoyed all the adventures that followed. She undertook virtually all of the historical research. She took many of the photographs used to illustrate what happened over the year. It would be no exaggeration to say that without Jackie there would have been no book. I thank Leo Fortey for wise computer advice, and for drawing the location map.

  Many people helped with identifications of animals and plants belonging to groups in which I have no expertise. I should mention Andrew Padmore first, because his tireless efforts to compile a catalogue of our moth species entailed more on-site visits than anybody else. His wife, Clare, spent several convivial late evenings with us. Andrew’s photographs adorn this book, and I wish there had been room for more. Peter Creed generously guided me through mosses and liverworts, which I could not have attempted myself. Pat Wolseley kindly identified the lichens I collected. Her colleagues at the Natural History Museum identified beetles in variety, and I particularly thank Max Barclay and Michael Geiser for their unrivalled knowledge, ably aided by young Jordan Rainey, coleopterist-in-waiting. Sally-Ann Spence brought her Minibeast Mayhem crew (including Jordan) to the wood, when a good time was had by all, thanks to Sally-Ann’s irrepressible enthusiasm—and small mammals duly appeared for inspection. It was, however, Laura Henderson who discovered evidence of dormice on another occasion. John Tweddle added woodlice, centipedes and millipedes to the list. My old friend Dick Vane-Wright allowed the Diptera to make a respectable contribution in the leggy form of crane flies, collected during several visits. On two occasions Andrew Polaszek collected tiny insects by sweeping with a special net, garnering tiny parasitic wasps in particular; some of these were passed on to Charles Godfray for identification. Nobody could have done the work on these insects with more authority. Peter Chandler, Roger Booth, Duncan Sivell and Gavin Broad made more insect additions, while Rony Huys identified a crustacean. Toby Abrehart added the molluscs. Many species of spiders were identified by Lawrence Bee during his three visits, and a few additional ones were added by Paul Selden; I am indebted to them for sharing their experience with me.

  The canopy visit and its cherry-picker were arranged by Neil Melleney, himself no mean naturalist. The visit of Natural History Museum scientists on the same day was kindly organised by Daniel Whitmore. Everyone got a turn in the treetops. Claire Andrews arrived in the wood to record bat squeaks, and kindly went through the recordings with the author afterwards to reveal a surprising variety. Although most of the fungi are my own determinations, Alick Henrici helped me with one or two species that had me stumped. Hans-Josef Schroers confirmed two difficult, tiny fungi. Finally, my long-time fellow commuter Charles Hussey collected small organisms from damp hollows at the foot of beech trees to discover yet another ecology of which I had been unaware.

  For sharing their memories of Chiltern woods in former times I thank especially David Rose and John Hill. The National Trust staff at Greys Court generously allowed us to examine their old estate maps. Richard Ovey of Hernes—whose family have lived in the area for generations—kindly laid out for us a huge and detailed old map of Lambridge Wood and its surroundings; Richard’s wife, Gillian, also introduced us to Susan Fulford-Dobson, the last member of the Stapleton family living around Henley, the family that owned Greys Court for several centuries. Susan was kind enough to let us use a manuscript history of her family compiled by her father. Rowena Emmett provided useful information concerning Cecil Roberts. The story of our wood is bound up with that of Henley-on-Thames, and much useful material was located in the River and Rowing Museum. The history of the town and its buildings were explained to us in scholarly detail by Ruth Gibson, who knows every old oak beam individually. The Henley-on-Thames Archaeological and Historical Group is thanked for their help. Paul Clayden kindly lent several items from his library—and for a long time. The staff at the County Record Office in Oxford were efficient providers of further information of historical interest. The Museum of Rural Life at the University of Reading kindly allowed access to several rare publications concerning agricultural history. The local studies collection at Henley Library provided additional information. The High Wycombe Museum is acknowledged for its displays about the “age of the bodgers.” Joanna Cary, Haydn Jones, and Sir James and Monica Barlow each contributed their own stories relating to the wood and its environs. The enthusiastic volunteers of the Chiltern Society restored our footpaths and put up new waymarks.

  To help us unscramble still earlier history Jill Eyers, ever resourceful, brought in another team of volunteers to dig out and investigate Grim’s Dyke. They contributed to a particularly important episode in our story. Paul Henderson dug holes in several parts of the wood to explore the geology. Jan Zalasiewicz kindly arranged for the cutting and sectioning of interesting pebbles, which helped to elucidate the Ice Age history of the wood, and for advice on their interpretation I am particularly indebted to Professor Phil Gibbard. To illustrate another use of the clay-with-flints, Lonny van Ryswyck and Nadine Sterk at Atelier NL in Eindhoven, the Netherlands, successfully experimented in producing tiles cooked from the clays in the wood. Flints were melted down to produce glass in the same studio.

  Processing trees for firewood and timber was part of the Grim’s Dyke Wood project. John Moorby kindly took down a beech tree which was split for firewood. Martin Drew felled specimen cherry trees, planked them and brought the planks back to the wood to season. Some of this planked wood was diverted to Philip Koomen to make our cherry-wood cabinet, as described in the book. Andrew Hawkins generously demonstrated how to make charcoal at a small scale from “trimmings” from beech trees (and very good charcoal too). Alistair Phillips showed us the finer points of turning wood into bowls—which we still use and treasure. Lucius Cary made us another one just for fun. John Morris, director of the Chiltern Woodlands Project, advised us on the principles of woodland management, and some of that advice we will attempt to follow. Photographs were taken by Birgir Bohm DFF through the seasons to capture the changes in the wood from one particular viewpoint. I thank him for his patient contribution. Robert Francis supplied several more excellent photographs, which have improved the illustrations. Our “woody neighbours” bought other parts of the former Lambridge Wood, and they have all been a pleasure to get to know. In particular, Nina Krauzewicz made beautiful drawings of a few of our plants.

  Heather Godwin read the first draft of the book, as she has so often before. Her suggestions for improving the clarity or punch of the text are always wise, and usually followed. Robert Lacey read and improved the manuscript with exemplary care. Finally, Arabella Pike has been my loyal editor for many years. I thank her for her patience, and hope she finds this book worthy of its predecessors.

  Atelier NL, Eindhoven

  Atelier NL, a Dutch design studio, was asked to visualise the material trans
formation of one square metre of earth from Grim’s Dyke Wood. The native earth and stone yielded a unique array of pigments, ceramics and glass. The excavation process clarified the history of the land, which has never been farmed. The flint-studded clay was stiff and difficult to penetrate. The flint sparked as it was crushed and ground into a fine powder. When exposed to high temperatures, the flint powder melted into white, green and bluish glass. The tough earth, kneaded, cleaned and dried, was exposed to a gradation of extreme temperatures. A bold array of pigments and ceramic tiles was created as a result, ranging from warm creamy brown to rich peat. In one small patch of ground, all of the resources were found to make a variety of paints, pigments, ceramic tiles and glass. Atelier NL’s work at Grim’s Dyke Wood reflects humanity’s long relationship with the transformation of land. Through digging, sorting, grinding and heating, the geological history of land merges with story of human creation. (Text: Liz Holland)

  Notes

  1 · APRIL

  1. Clare Leighton, Four Hedges: A Gardener’s Chronicle (Victor Gollancz, 1935).