Visiting an old friend

This post is just an account of a walk I took this sunny morning to see my favourite tree. It’s an absolutely magnificent English Oak, growing at the edge of a sunken lane at the bottom of a valley with high slopes either side. This has created a sheltered location that allowed the tree to grow into a very pleasing and symmetrical shape, unlike a lot of wind-blown and traffic-trimmed roadside oaks nearby.

At this time of  year before the fields are cultivated, I can get most of the way there behind the hedge following a deers’ highway, without walking along the main road, a hair-raising experience at the best of times. It’s good to turn into the end of the lane and get away from the traffic noise, as birdsong takes over. Merlin tells me I can hear seven different birds in one short interval – I recognise most of them and their songs but have never actually seen a blackcap. Evidence of deer here too – lots of scrambles over the bank.

The hedgebanks are at their most lush, the grass full of unfurling ferns and so many wildflowers: herb robert, stitchwort, shining cranesbill, dog’s mercury, bluebells, ramsons, celandines, primroses, violets, purple vetch and barren strawberry – a prose poem of country names, a feast for the eyes and a perfumed treat for the nose in the still air. In a week or two, there’ll be an extravagant froth of cow parsley tumbling into the road, starred with red campion and a few late bluebells.

The further along I walk the more of the tree I can see – from the top of the crown peeking over the top of the hedge all the way to its full glory, swathed lightly in a mist of ochre-coloured spring foliage just emerging along with its catkins. In the blue sky above, a lone buzzard flaps away, waiting for the thermals to get going for his silent circling to spot prey in the rough grass.

Peace is briefly disturbed as I have to stand up the bank to let a local shepherd pass with a rattling trailer behind his pickup, a cheery “Hi Lois, how are you?” out of the window. A few minutes later, there’s a volley of bleating as a flock of sheep up the hill recognise the engine noise.

Oh well, time to turn home again, looking forward to a cup of tea before I get on with the day’s tasks. On the way back, the sun has risen enough to catch the little terraces on the hillside, a product of soil creep combined with the sheep tracks across the slope.