5th May 2018, Creech Woods, 50°53’47.2″N 1°04’44.2″W
The noise spindles the air, tumbling through the leaves to my ears. My insides lighten hearing it, like they are drifting above me, mixing with the current of wind and song. I stop, slow my breathing, tune my ears, listen to the voices. The twittle of bluetit, the call of chaffinch, and the twirl of great tit unify. They form a chorus, a mingling of voices. But birds aren’t the only beings with voices in the forest. They are just the ones I hear first, the ones that taught me to pay attention to the woodland song, to take the landscape, unearth it, and turn it inside out, where I then heard the hidden songs of the trees.
It’s the first hot day of the year, the sky is absent of cloud, the only shape filling it is the spring sun. My startled eyes begin to throb in my sockets, and the heat swelters on my skin. I’m under a dome of conifer and broadleaf, the fresh green of the leaves giving the dark bark a lighter hue. My feet grate raspingly on the path, impressing the partially dry, mud-washed gravel with the print of my boot. A simple act that is usually unaccompanied by thought. But this time, I note, it is something I have done many times throughout my life. And I wonder, who else has done it too? A seamless, invisible act: feet on path. But it’s what came before me, the history under my feet that now fascinates me. Memories of this wood trail the timeline of my childhood, crinkling the edges of my memory in a medley of green, of frosty winter walks, of frozen puddles stabbed with shards of ice, and of wellies getting stuck in mud.
Creech Woods clings to the western outer edge of the South Downs, a fistful of 185 hectares that’s been sliced in half by Bunkers Hill road. It has a complex history, has been touched and shaped by many hands – human, animal, and plant. All of which have left scars, and marks, and traces in the strata that remain visible, even now. You just have to know where to look and how to listen. I have begun to listen to these unheard voices, the voices that alter the makeup of a woodland just down the road from my house. Creech Woods has a name that reminds me of the tiny posies of wildflowers I used to gather and place in small glasses as a child. Its name has its derivative in both Celtic and Roman lore. Its Celtic origin means a hill, or inlet, or barrow. And the Roman, ‘spring’, like the ones that weave through the woods, trickling you deeper into wonderland. They follow the inner wooden voices, and so do I.
I walk along the narrow paths engraved into the forest floor, imbedded with rocks, the colour of old paper that you find in dusty books. The earthy lungs of trees, and the breath of my own, rise up to meet in the canopies. Locks of sunlight trail through the gaps where leaf fails to meet leaf. It seems so still. The loud chirrup of a chiffchaff echoes through gangly branches. Twigs and nuts patter to the floor, like the sound of hail when it first begins. The air is light; almost as if I closed my eyes and dreamed hard enough, I could take off into the trees like a feather. Beech, Oak, Ash, Birch, Norway spruce, Douglas fir, Corsican pine, they stand like an amalgamation of paint smatterings on a canvas. I touch them, feeling the indents of their wrinkles. They smell old, like damp moss mingling with dewy newborn leaves. The scent of eau de nature. I can taste the earthiness on my tongue. Creech Woods has a history that has shaped and seen time, the place has gravity, I feel heavier here. And I begin to sharpen more to the voices of the wood.
The woodland’s depth of mysteries is comparable to the ocean floor, the only difference being, this one we can touch with fingertips and eyes. But often, with the unknown, destruction follows. During the Neolithic Era, throughout the whole of Europe, wood became a commodity, a material possession. Woodlands were destroyed, burnt to crusts of carbon found in the ground. We favoured instead the grazing of sheep, and created a landscape folded with smooth scarps, like an unironed sheet. The wildwood was no more.
Creech Woods is part of the Forest of Bere, a patchwork community of woodland, heathland, downland, farmland, and open spaces that comprise a large part of Hampshire. After the Norman Conquest in 1066, this Forest became a ‘Royal Forest’ under the rule of William the Conqueror. The tales that began to lace the Forest were ones that were akin to Robin Hood, with robbers, poachers, and highwaymen who lived in trees. The fairytale wood that I walk through today is a complete antithesis to this time that began to alter it drastically from the wildwood it was originally created to be.
When I was a child, I stopped following the rocky pathways that were made for walking by the Forestry Commission, and instead I began to trail off into the understory. I find that the real treasures of the wood aren’t found on paths, but in undergrowth. Like fallen stars they scatter throughout nature’s skyscrapers – the bulb of a bluebell, the ancient withered trunk of a tree, and the foil of something more animal than me. You find a lot more when you don’t follow the footprints of others. Something unseen, something unnoticed. And then sometimes, something completely surprising.
I arrive at the old foundations that I’ve been to many times before. Crumbling brick bases, cement now disintegrated walls, which are only held together by the tendrils of moss. It is carpeted in mud and leaves, still squelchy from recent spring rains, and sprinkled with cast-off seed casings.
These are the remains of buildings that were the camps for 3,850 soldiers during the final days before D-Day in WWII. The ancient trails around me carry more than just my footprint, they carry history: the marks of leather black boots and tyre treads from over 300 vehicles. Deep grooves have been left into the earth from tanks, and years of life since has not yet been able to cover them up. If you listen, you can still hear the shouts of people, the gargle of engines, the sparks of matches. And beyond the smell of sun-kissed fir leaves and damp dewy mud, lies the scent of cigarettes and liquor, and the watery stench of uniforms long overdue a wash, and the sweat of tired and courageous bodies who fought for my freedom to place my foil wherever I please. And just underneath, ringing the last decibel before silence, the sound of voices that sung long before me.
*
Huff, huff, huff.
Pat, pat, pat.
Pa-crunch, crunch, crunch.
Snap.
Spring 2017 I encountered another ancient voice of the wood that quietly hums in the shadows. I was running amid the trees, where branches no longer stayed above, but arched down to caress the ground that gave it life. The woodland carpet was littered with leaves and twigs and mud, that made it impossible to stay quiet. I stopped. In front of me was a pit, an old bomb crater, deep and filled with water. It smelt stagnant, like it hadn’t been disturbed for a long time other than by skittering flies. The water was dark, sunlight barely finding it. Logs protruded out of the water, scored and angry. Another tree had fallen to the left of it, large and ragged. I walked round to the other side, took the narrow path, careful not to fall in. I left the crater and found the main path again.
Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat.
What was that?
I turned back a few paces. A snake, masticated and spilling out in the middle. Its green and spattered sandy-coloured pattern had picked up a grey colour from its final warmth slithering from its body. Ants and flies flocked the carcass, I flicked them away. It hadn’t been dead long. It was about thirty centimetres, but the haggard slice in its midriff made it look spindly and fragile. I picked it up and carried it to the edge.
Pat, pat, pat.
The path was dry, leaving trails of sandy dust up my calves; it felt gritty in between my toes. The path dipped slightly for the stream, and then up again. I turned, hearing something. To the left was a small curtain in the green kaleidoscope of the trees, revealing a hidden trail. The outer leaves at the entrance of the path were entranced in light, but the ones behind gave way to the grey of shadow. I heard a rustle – I was being watched.
Where are you?
I saw it. A stag. Antlers reached up, crawled into the clouds, and swayed like branches in the wind. His ears twitched. His black eyes, the colour of liquorice, stared at me. His ears twitched again. Left, then right. His coat was smooth, the colour of shimmering maroon, juiced with lemon. And his eyes, they were inscribed with wisdom, like he’d seen the human soul and was wary for it. In seconds he pranced off. Swishing of bushes echoed, dissipating into the distance. But those moments we shared are scored into my memory, like the tracks that the tanks had left in the earth seventy-four years ago. I stayed for another minute or so, smiled, then; pat, pat, pat, pat…
*
But it’s not just the voices of human and animal that echo throughout the woodland. The plants and trees have voices too.
I leave the foundations, and weave my way through the undergrowth; some trees are tall, their leaves up high, and some are shorter. Some lean to one side, and some to the other. Some are mottled from a fallen branch last winter, and some are even the beginnings of wooden houses, with branches leaning against their trunks. I kneel before one of the heady giants, woodland scrub gathering around my knees, and move aside a leg-sized branch being eaten from the inside out. Underneath I find what I’m looking for, white vein-like roots of mycelium. These tiny trails of mycelium are fungi, no bigger than a needle, and are found beneath the undergrowth in woodlands. Yet their size is no comparison to the importance they play in a woodland’s health. They connect with the tree roots around them, merging into one.
I push away some humus and darkened leaves, watching as the white trail goes on and on, sprouting out new lines of connection. I’m atop a mountain of wonders. Forests are like an iceberg, what you see above is incomparable to what’s underneath.
The tree roots and fungi have a symbiotic relationship where they not only feed each other, but protect each other too. This remarkable fungus connects to the fine root hairs of the tree, which then connects to another tree, and another. Their filaments submerge themselves into the undergrowth, and hurtle messages across the whole forest. The white and seemingly missable fungus roots are an array of interconnecting biological pathways, more complicated than the most sophisticated computer systems, and commonly known as the ‘wood wide web’. They connect tree to tree throughout the entire forest. These intricate lines not only connect the tree and provide communication, but are the deliverers of nutrients and water, optimally dividing it up amongst the trees. If one tree has an abundance of sugar stores, it passes it on to the one that doesn’t. Nobody gets left behind, regardless of species. And when trees are in danger, their leaves being eaten by insects, they taste and identify the saliva of the attacker, producing the perfect toxin to turn their leaves bitter – like antibodies. They warn the other trees around of the impending danger, by sending warning signals through this underground mycorrhizal network. It’s a symbiotic community, in perfect balance. Trees and roots aren’t passive to what’s going on around, they are reactionary and active. They are more alive than we realise.
*
The first time I realised that living things move, breathe, and do more than just sway; was when we started growing sunflowers in the back garden as a child. They grew bold and bright, effeminate, yet territorially masculine. Spindly green stems earnestly tried to sprout tender raincoat-yellow petals. They tilted away from the fence that they were placed in front of, inching closer and closer to the ground. I used to think that they were falling. I remember the petals almost having a shimmer, like oil paint moments after it is splashed onto a canvas, dewy, yet on its way to being dry. I would have photos taken next to them when they became taller than me, but I never touched, for fear that it would fade away in my hand, dissipating into the air, and blending with the sunlight that kissed its face until it was no more – like memory.
“They’re like that because they’re leaning, they’re trying to get into the sunlight,” my father said to me one day.
“Why are they leaning though?”
“Because the sun doesn’t reach them, we should probably plant them elsewhere, there’s just no space…”
“But why?”
“All plants move, they grow towards the sun, they find the sunniest spots and try to move towards them.”
“So they’re not falling?”
“No – they’re living.”
*
Living. To live we must move, grow, thrive. Trees, despite everything we have learnt, need to be close together, they don’t like being more than three feet apart. The optimum environment is a cramped one, or one that may appear cramped. In fact, if they begin to touch they just grow in another direction, filling up the gaps. The woodland’s version of paint by numbers. It means that the canopies are compact, preventing storms getting in and tearing up the trees in winter, and the sun coming in and drying up the ground in summer. Every tree is needed – every tree is valued. They are a team. Yet they are not just a community, they are a family. The larger parent trees help the growth of the younger ones. Trees are raised pedagogically so that they grow in perfect balance and perfect health; not too tall, not too thin, and not too quickly. Sprouting just right so that they are strong enough to survive everyday weathering. The parent trees shelter the light from the understory, only allowing three per cent of sunlight to reach the young ones. They drip feed the baby trees the nutrients that they need. Maintaining health for every tree in their family. They hear, know, and feel each other. I would even say they care.
*
Most of us don’t live near the woods anymore however, but they still fill our childhood stories. Spring 2003, my mother, brothers and I were on a walk in Creech Woods. Picture this: the wind was playing kiss-chase with my pigtails, and the sun was bright, coaxing out another new freckle on my cheek. Mud squelched like cotton candy, and sticks snapped like the teeth of crocodiles. My brothers were running ahead feigning lightsabers with air crunched into their fists, and I trailed behind.
Not wanting to walk the path paved out for me, I left the tracks of my family and followed a clearing next to it. It was bordered by gnarly giants, arching over my head and pecking the tree opposite. An ephemerally green cave that moved with each huff of wind, and grew minutely with each swell of light. In the middle of the hoary arches were old stumps of trees. In some, the felt of tawny moss grew, and in others, the weave of a spider’s home rest in the centre, dew clinging to the almost invisible strands, making the drops look like stars in the sky. The spewing innards showed the heart of the tree. Fairies have always been synonymous with my experience of Creech Woods, and I once believed that these stumps were fairy castles. But behind the fairytale, these stumps were just remnants of what was once living, like slabs of concrete in a graveyard. But it is only now that I know, that even these decrepit stumps still beat with life.
I pass the stumps now, bending down to look at each one. Some have been worn away, either by deer or by human foil, turning the dry waxy trunk the colour of overworked wood. Some are larger, with bigger and sharper turrets, and some are smaller; but all are in a row. Like soldiers taken down on the front line, I can no longer hear their battle cry. Looking in them, I can peer into time itself, seeing the drained remnants of parts of old rings, wide or thin, a season of dew or a season of drought. Cut-off rugged masts, gnarled and worn, hold the deepest of the trees’ secrets.
The levelling of trees interrupts communication. But the mycelium acts as an intercessor, interconnecting the roots of both the standing and the felled. They maintain the voices of all the trees. This is why you come across hundreds-of-years-old stumps. And why the ones that were there during my childhood are still there now, relatively unchanged. Because they can’t photosynthesise, they are kept alive and fed through the mycorrhizal network from surrounding trees. To me, stumps are the essence of what it means to be a forest. For stumps are just as important as trees, each life, no matter how small, is valued.
What is more, is that the roots of these depleted stumps still chirr with life in the same way as that of the unfelled trees. Recent scientific discovery has shown that all tree roots actually crackle under the earth at 220 hertz; the younger roots hear and feel it, and swivel their own tips to meet it. What this means is not yet known, science still needs to catch up. But the next time you hear the crackling that backdrops the silence in the woods, it may not just be the wind. Whether stump or tree, underneath our feet it’s all still alive.
I stand up and begin to make my way out of the understory to the path which leads to the short walk home. Sunlight is beginning to fall, bringing with it long casting shadows, which extend the stumps to almost their original height. I meet the path again, and come across a segment of coppiced trees that were sliced out last spring.
It had just been mowed down, only a few hours before, when I passed whilst on a run last year in 2017. The smell preceded the sight – the earthy, fresh scent of felled wood. The sun was hanging low and wooden dust fairies still hung in the air, like they were stuck in time. The ground was so flat, I stopped – startled. The trees had been fished out, like a fist snatching crisps out of a bowl, and were gone. It now stood noiseless, mutely awaiting new growth. I had never experienced a forest so still. Fresh with absence, the space heaved silence.
Today, a year later, the ancient broken bones of trees still litter the ground, the land lies open and bare. Only three lone trees stand tall, like electricity poles, their canopy heads are gone, but up the top you can see ringed burrows, varying in size, where woodpeckers have been. Fronds of green sprig up in between the cracked debris, grass or plant, it is still too early to tell. This chunk of the forest has become a place of missingness for me. Gone, like there was never an ancient giant there that saw the world before I was born. Forgotten, except the trails and coils of branches, battered and bruised, that get left behind.
Trees are more than just wood; they talk, taste, and smell too. Communication isn’t limited to the underground world. Trees also respond to insect danger through scented warning signals, producing a fragrance, and dispersing it into the wind. A method that takes longer, but can go further. The distant tree picks it up, produces the same aroma, and carries it on. Trees don’t just communicate with trees, but woodlands with woodlands, stands with stands. So when there is a coppiced section of land, there is no tree to pass the warning on from stand to stand, meaning that danger can await the trees in the next land. It’s not just the trees in the forest that depend upon one another, but the trees in forests elsewhere that depend upon those too. When trees are felled at twenty to one hundred years as an act of management, we forget that they are supposed to be old giants that have seen wars and years before, and all life since. They should etch the pages of a time we can’t access. Yet they quite often don’t.
I turn my back on the felled ground and wonder what forests Creech Woods talks too, which tree this one in front of me is connected to, perhaps it was one of the ones behind me that’s no longer there. At the base of it I see a puddle of bluebells, bordering a blotch of several trees; like springlines, gently rippling under the soft whorls of the wind. Puddles that will soon multiply to sea, filling the woodland with a violet-tinged ivory. There are still no clouds, but pink is beginning to fill the sky in amassing strokes, like I’ve painted it on with watercolour. Wet and drizzling into all parts of blue that are not yet pink.
*
Hearing voices is my new favourite thing to do. But the most remarkable voices of the woods are not the one that you find between them from stag or deer, or by burrowing below ground to find their own personal phoneline, it is the one that they keep locked up inside. The one that is only accessible through the use of a tree microphone. Place it to the bark and you can listen to the rumble of the tree moving, the popping of tiny water particles as it blends with air, getting sucked up through the xylem that lie just under the skin, before it rushes up to the branches, dissipating into the leaves. An inner pulsation that’s as metronomic as the beat of my heart. And it actually sounds like a heartbeat. Trees have a heartbeat. Remarkable.
I watch the trees and their arresting sway. I close my eyes. The imprints of leafy giants embed my eyelids. And in a moment, the trees that no longer are, draw breath once again. I listen for the unheard voices, the ones of a hidden wonderland. They sing of mystery and unfathomability, for wildness and liberty, for glory and majesty. They sing to Creator. My closed eyes glow green, red, yellow, white, stained by sunlight. I blink, see a shape, a cross maybe, a circle and a straight. I blink again, they’ve moved, like people in a queue, shifting their way along my lids, shuffle by shuffle, until they can escape my eyes, running back to wild.
I listen for a world once again becoming wildwood.