offers little in the way of vistas to give you perspective of size or space. With an ancient woodland such as Prickly Nut Wood, which has not been cultivated by the plough and undulates across the landscape, much of the topography is hidden by the trees themselves. Added to this, Prickly Nut Wood had a thick wall of Rhododendron ponticum, which made the landscape impenetrable in places and further disguises the topography.
I remember clearly one of my first adventures, cutting a path through the rhododendron, bill hook in hand, and arriving suddenly at the base of a large oak tree. This tree, the largest in the wood, would stand out in any other landscape but here it was hidden amongst tall chestnut stems, birch re-growth and the blanket wall of established rhododendron. I estimate the tree to be around 300 to 350 years old, which is young to middle-aged for an oak tree. It has a circumference of more than 7 metres and a height of more than 25 metres. Its crown is similar to a parkland or field tree, in that it has spread and formed a large canopy. The regular cutting of the coppice woodland below it will have helped give it the light to expand and the coppice re-growth will have helped push the tree up taller. It stands proudly on a ridge and now I have cut the coppice to the north, the true branching pattern of the cerebral crown can be seen in its full glory. I have attached a swing seat to the oak and it makes a wonderful spot from which to survey the woodland and across to Blackdown beyond.
Having found the tree for the first time, I sat down on a mossy seat formed between the root buttresses and contemplated the changes that might have occurred during the life of a tree of this age. Perhaps germinating as a seed during the English Civil War, it will have been growing through countless changes, numerous wars and a good few king and queens. One of the buttresses has a large scar across it, angled as a woodsman would angle a cut to remove the buttress prior to setting the tree up for felling. The scar has calloused over and I like to think it was caused by a woodsman who, after beginning the cut, thought better of felling such a magnificent tree and decided to leave it to grow on. I am very thankful that he did.
It has also been struck by lightning on two occasions and carries the scars right down its trunk. The tree seems in good health and shows no signs of distress from this experience, bar the scars.
I often lie on the ground and look up through the vast array of branches, marvelling at the tree’s ability to hold up such a huge weight of timber high into the sky, and then consider the volume of water the tree is absorbing and then pumping through the sap layer to reach the millions of little leaves high above.
I can only guess at the role and value this tree has played in the lives of others who have gone before me, but even in my twenty years at Prickly Nut Wood it has become a focal point for celebration and contemplation.
My eldest son Rowan has the ashes of his maternal grandfather scattered beneath the oak, its presence seeming fit to be the chosen resting place by his grandmother after the loss of her husband. Friends of mine have asked to come and sit beneath it when they are going through a troubled period in their lives or are just seeking a quiet space. I too have turned to the tree and used its calm, ancient and peaceful presence when I have had troubles of my own.
It has featured as a focal point in a production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and is referred to in the book The Bard and Co, in which the tree is named ‘Shakespeare’s Oak’. Its acorns were recently taken to the Globe Theatre in London and then distributed, along with a picture of the tree, to those who attended to take away and plant.
Yesterday, Ben Law introduced it to us, the oldest tree in the wood. At this time of year, the scattered acorns were sprouting and beginning to send roots into the ground. We collected several cupfuls with the aim of giving everyone an acorn from Shakespeare’s Oak (now newly named).
The Bard and Co.
A local herbalist became a regular visitor to the oak tree. She was moved by the presence of ‘tree spirits’ that she clearly sensed when around the tree. Although I cannot claim to have had such an otherworldly experience, I am also drawn to the tree. Whether out of superstition or respect, in spring I always find myself looking across to the oak tree and subconsciously asking the tree’s blessing to continue burning charcoal in the woods.
The tree has always been a magical place for my children. Zed and Tess know the tree as ‘the story-telling tree’, for when you sit on the bench suspended from its limbs and swing and ask the tree politely for a story about whatever you wish for, the tree always responds (with a little help) by telling a story.
There is no doubt in my mind that this tree has become a sacred place to me and my family and friends over the last 20 years, and whether by circumstance or unknown force we have all in our way been drawn by the presence of this magical, ancient tree.
Beyond the oak, the woodland drops away through more sweet chestnut coppice and comes to a stream that flows near the northern boundary. This stream picks up both surface run-off from the woodland and the escarpment above, and is also fed by the springs that break between the clay and greensand soil layers. It opens out into a pond, now a wildlife haven for dragon- and damsel-flies, newts and often a grass snake.
7 May
Glorious day. I awoke to shafts of sunlight across my face and after a good stretch and a couple of cups of tea, I headed down to the pond for a swim. I slid in off the platform and as always was shocked by the icy-cool, spring-fed water. I had been treading water for a couple of minutes when a shape caught my attention. Turning towards it, I had the strange sensation of observing a grass snake swimming past me, just a couple of feet away and right in my line of sight. Its agility in the water was impressive and it made quickly for the far bank, disappearing amongst some flag iris.
Swimming in the pond became a morning ritual in my early years at Prickly Nut Wood. I built a small, wooden ladder and a few planks for a platform, and this allowed me to enter and exit the pond without my feet disturbing the muddy banks and clouding the clear water. The temperature of the water means a dip is usually just that, and most of my time is spent sitting on the platform observing the comings and goings in the pond.
The pond sits on the woodland edge, benefiting from the environment of the woodland on one side and the organic hay field on the other. Between the pond and the field, there is a narrow wood bank and a ditch. The ditch has been mechanically cleared many times but the bank retains its archaeological features. Wood banks were once common along the perimeter of ancient woodlands; the ditch would usually be on the outside of the wood, with the bank stretching some thirty feet back into the wood. The Prickly Nut wood bank seems narrow and may have been disturbed when the chestnut was planted some 130 to 150 years ago.
I have now coppiced this area from the oak tree to the pond three times, and the biodiversity and abundance have increased with each cut. But it was all very different when I first stumbled across this area. My first experience involved battling through the twisted stems of rhododendron and I did not emerge by a beautiful dragonfly-dappled pond; to the contrary, I came out at a farm rubbish dump, full of rusty metal, cans of oil and old milk crates, through which grew a few self-seeded goat willows in a large indentation in the landscape that was once a pond. I loaded a trailer with this collection of dumped items and took them to be recycled. I then hired a digger and began the process of clearing out silt and willow roots until I met
