I am very lucky that my work has moved into offices alongside the botanic gardens. Just as I gain a little more free time with Julie safely settled at college. I walk there almost every day during my lunch hour.
You can walk in a garden – even quite a large one – every day and still not get much more than a general impression of quiet paths and nice flowers. This is how I have been walking all summer, aware that different plants come into season around me, but still something of a visitor.
I’ve decided its time to go deeper, get better acquainted. I can’t walk there every day and remain a stranger. I’ve decided to start with the trees. The trees in this botanic garden are so many and so venerable, that someone has even written a book about them. I bought the book and I’m slowly working through the different sections – oaks, pines, cedars, sycamores, limes – meeting each of the trees in turn and paying attention to them.
Trees are like people – very individual. There are several giant redwoods, for example, each one a complete character: one has layered off several new trunks for example, turning itself into a grove, while another one has budded off one single massive branch lower down that looks for all the world like an elephant’s trunk. There are trees which have turned into splendid specimens, elbowing out their neighbours, and ones that are weak and spindly. One or two are dead by fungus or gales. Some have big weeping canopies, so that you can walk under them into a private world. Some are extremely old, and others are quite ephemeral: beautiful silver birches that will have to be replaced several times before their neighbours die.
And like so many things in life, once you start to look at trees, your eyes are suddenly tuned to them. Everywhere you look there are trees that were invisible before! Suddenly you notice your neighbour’s fine copper beech, or wonder why a cedar was planted on that corner.