Книга - The Wood for the Trees: The Long View of Nature from a Small Wood

The Wood for the Trees: The Long View of Nature from a Small Wood
Richard Fortey


From one of our greatest science writers, this biography of a beech-and-bluebell wood through diverse moods and changing seasons combines stunning natural history with the ancient history of the countryside to tell the full story of the British landscape.‘The woods are the great beauty of this country… A fine forest-like beech wood far more beautiful than anything else which we have seen in its vicinity’ is how John Stuart Mill described a small patch of beech-and bluebell woodland, buried deeply in the Chiltern Hills and now owned by Richard Fortey. Drawing upon a lifetime of scientific expertise and abiding love of nature, Fortey uses his small wood to tell a wider story of the ever-changing British landscape, human influence on the countryside over many centuries and the vital interactions between flora, fauna and fungi.The trees provide a majestic stage for woodland animals and plants to reveal their own stories. Fortey presents his wood as an interwoven collection of different habitats rich in species. His attention ranges from the beech and cherry trees that dominate the wood to the flints underfoot; the red kites and woodpeckers that soar overhead; the lichens, mosses and liverworts decorating the branches as well as the myriad species of spiders, moths, beetles and crane-flies. The 300 species of fungi identified in the wood capture his attention as much as familiar deer, shrews and dormice.Fortey is a naturalist who believes that all organisms are as interesting as human beings – and certainly more important than the observer. So this book is a close examination of nature and human history. He proves that poetic writing is compatible with scientific precision. The book is filled with details of living animals and plants, charting the passage of the seasons, visits by fellow enthusiasts; the play of light between branches; the influence of geology; and how woodland influences history, architecture and industry. On every page he shows how an intimate study of one small wood can reveal so much about the natural world and demonstrates his relish for the incomparable pleasures of discovery.










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Copyright (#u23fb6c70-d4e8-5cb8-b83c-f2a3a378b8ce)


William Collins

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This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2016

Copyright © Richard Fortey 2016

The author asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008104696

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008104672

Version: 2017-03-17




Dedication (#u23fb6c70-d4e8-5cb8-b83c-f2a3a378b8ce)


For Eileen and Stuart Skeates




Contents


Cover (#ue7c86d88-203a-50d2-b6b1-18d26c676f17)

Title Page (#ulink_58227413-2dc3-591c-bb98-70467e0f7efc)

Copyright (#ulink_ca568071-6f8f-50c6-bf69-e8c1ca64ff33)

Dedication (#ulink_3e052157-2862-52a7-907f-4d294a7b3eba)

Map (#ulink_c896a2a0-3474-5881-8c97-d1a41cb2e23e)

1: April (#ulink_30f649b9-dabf-5f83-b386-e54d20adc805)

2: May (#ulink_42a7854d-f639-5868-9cb2-4c6b42bace01)

3: June (#ulink_546cfad8-3d42-5bcb-bec7-a58fca581029)

4: July (#litres_trial_promo)

5: August (#litres_trial_promo)

6: September (#litres_trial_promo)

7: October (#litres_trial_promo)

8: November (#litres_trial_promo)

9: December (#litres_trial_promo)

10: January (#litres_trial_promo)

11: February (#litres_trial_promo)

12: March (#litres_trial_promo)

Picture Section (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Notes (#litres_trial_promo)

Index (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Richard Fortey (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)





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1

April (#u23fb6c70-d4e8-5cb8-b83c-f2a3a378b8ce)


After a working life spent in a great museum, the time had come for me to escape into the open air. I spent years handling fossils of extinct animals; now, the inner naturalist needed to touch living animals and plants. My wife Jackie discovered the advertisement: a small piece of the Chiltern Hills up for sale. The proceeds from a television series proved exactly enough to purchase four acres of ancient beech-and-bluebell woodland, buried deeply inside a greater stretch of stately trees. The briefest of visits clinched the deal – exploring the wood simply felt like coming home. On 4 July 2011 ‘Grim’s Dyke Wood’ became ours.

I began to keep a diary to record wildlife, and the look and feel of the woodland as it passed through diverse moods and changing seasons. I sat on one particular stump to make observations, which I wrote down in a small, leather-bound notebook. I was unconsciously compiling a biography of the wood – bio in the most exact sense, since animals and plants formed an important part of it. Before long, I saw that the story was as much about human history as it was about nature. For all its ancient lineage, the wood was shaped by human hand. I needed to explore the development of the English countryside, all the way from the Iron Age to the recent exploitation of woodland for beech furniture or tent pegs. I was moved by a compulsion to understand half-forgotten crafts and revive half-remembered words like ‘bodger’, ‘spile’ and ‘bavin’. Plans were made to fell timber, to follow the journey from tree to furniture; to visit the canopy in a cherry-picker; to explore the archaeology of that ancient feature, Grim’s Dyke, that ran along one side of the plot. I wanted to see if the wood could yield food as well as inspiration.

My scientific soul reawakened as I sought to comprehend the ways that plants and animals collaborate to generate a rich ecology. I had to sample everything: mosses, lichens, grasses, insects, and fungi. I investigated the natural history of beech, oak, ash, yew, and all the other trees. I spent moonlit evenings trapping moths; daytime frolicking with nets to catch crane flies or lifting up rotten logs to understand decay. I poked and prodded and snuffled under brambles. I wanted to turn the appropriate bits of geology into tiles and glass. The wood became a route to understanding how the landscape is forever in a state of transition, for all that we think it unchanging. In short, the wood became a project.

Grim’s Dyke Wood is just a segment in the middle of more extensive ancient woodland, Lambridge Wood, lying in the southern part of the county of Oxfordshire. Splitting Lambridge into separate plots generated a profit for the previous owner, but also allowed people of modest means to own and care for their own small piece of living history. Our fellow ‘woodies’ – as Jackie terms them – proved to include a well-known harpsichordist, a retired professor of business systems, a founder member of Genesis (the band, not the book), a virologist turned plant illustrator, ex-actors turned psychologists, and a woman of mystery. Our own patch is one of the smaller ones. All of the ‘woodies’ have their own reasons for wanting to be among the trees – some desire simply to dream, some would rather like to turn a profit, others to explore sustainable resources. I believe I am the only naturalist. All the owners are there to prevent the wood from being felled or turned into housing. For the long history of Lambridge Wood tells us that our trees are less worked today than at any time in the past. This sad redundancy is no less part of its tale, as our wood is inevitably connected to the wider world of commerce and markets. The histories of my home town, Henley-on-Thames, a mile away, and the famous river on which it sits, are bound into the narrative of the surrounding countryside. Ancient manors controlled the fate of woodlands for centuries. I have to imagine what the wood would have seen or heard as great events passed it by; who might have lurked under the trees, what poachers and vagabonds, poets or highwaymen.

Once the project was under way a curious thing happened. I wanted to make a collection. This may not sound particularly remarkable, but for somebody who had worked for decades with rank after rank of curated collections it was rejuvenation. Life among the stacks in the Natural History Museum in London had stifled my acquisitiveness, but now something was rekindled. I wanted to collect objects from the wood, not in the systematic way of a scientist, but with something of the random joy of a young boy. Perhaps I wanted to become that boy once again. Eighteenth-century gentlemen were wont to have cabinets of curiosities in which they displayed items that might have conversational or antiquarian interest. I wanted to have my own cabinet of curiosity. I would add items when my curiosity was piqued month by month: maybe a stone, a feather, or a dried plant – nothing for the eighteenth-century gent. I believe that curiosity is a most important human instinct. Curiosity is the enemy of certainty, and certainty – particularly conviction that other people are different, or sinful, or irreligious – lies behind much of the conflict and genocide that disfigure human history. If I could issue one injunction to humankind it would be: ‘Be curious!’ My collection will be a way of encapsulating the whole Grim’s Dyke Wood project: my New Curiosity Shop. And I already know that the last item to be curated will be the leather-bound notebook.

The collection requires a cabinet to house it. Jackie and I plan to fell one of our cherry trees and convert it into a wonderful receptacle for the wood’s serendipitous treasures. We must discuss the work with Philip Koomen, a noted Chiltern furniture-maker devoted to using local materials. Philip’s workshop, Wheelers Barn, is in the remotest part of the Chiltern Hills, only about five miles from Grim’s Dyke Wood as the crow flies, but about fifteen as the ancient roads wind hither and thither. His studio is imbued with calm. Polished sections through trees hanging on the walls show the qualities of each variety: colour, texture, grain, and age all combine to distinguish not just different tree species, but individual personalities. No two trees are identical. Some have burrs that section into turbulent swirls. Pale ash contrasts with rich walnut, and cherry with its warm tones is satisfactorily different from oak. This is a man who cares deeply about materials and believes in the genius loci – an integration of human and natural history that lends authenticity to a hand-made item. Philip’s handiwork from our own cherry tree will be a physical embodiment of our wood, but by housing the idiosyncratic collection picked up as the project develops it will also contain the wood, as curated by this writer. It will be a cabinet of memories as much as objects. We haggle a little about design, but I know I shall rely on his judgement. I will have to be patient when I gather up the small things in the wood that take my fancy. It will be some time before the collection can live in its dedicated home.

This book could be thought of as another kind of collection. Extracts from my diary describe the wood through the seasons. I follow H.E. Bates’s wonderful book Through the Woods (1936) in beginning in the exuberant month of April rather than with the calendar year, and frigid January. But then, H.E. Bates himself inherited the same plan from the writer and illustrator Clare Leighton, whose intimate portrait of her own garden through the cycles of the seasons, FourHedges,1 (#litres_trial_promo) he much admired. My friends and colleagues come to sample and identify almost every jot and tittle of natural history that they can find. Natural history leads on to science, and the stories of grand estates, woodland skills and trades, and life along the River Thames. Human folly and natural catastrophes link the wood to a wider world beyond the trees. This complex collection explains why the wood is as it is today; its rich diversity of life is a concatenation of particular circumstances. I am trying to reason how the natural world came to be so varied, and my understanding is refracted through the lens of my own small patch. I am trying to see the wood for the trees.

Bluebells

Some trees stand close together, like a pair of friends huddling in mutual support. Others are almost solitary, rearing away from their fellows in the midst of a clearing. The poet Edward Thomas described ‘the uncounted perpendicular straight stems of beech, and yet not all quite perpendicular or quite straight’.2 (#litres_trial_promo) Each tree trunk has individuality, for all the harmony of their numbers together. One leans a little towards a weaker neighbour; another carries a scar where a branch fell long ago; this one has an extraordinarily slender elegance as it reaches for its place under the sky; that one has a stocky base, as chunky as an elephant’s leg, and doubtless at least as strong. No two trees are really alike, yet their collaboration on the scale of the wider wood creates a sense of architectural design. The relatively pale and smooth beech bark helps to unite the structure, for in the early spring’s soft sunshine the tree trunks shine almost silver. The natural cathedral of the wood is supported by brilliant, vertical superstructure, one that shifts subtly with the moods of the sun.

It is too early in the month for many fresh beech leaves to have unfurled from their tight buds. The wood is still flooded with light. Some of the sunlight falls on the crisp, dark tan to gold-coloured leaves fallen from last year’s canopy that lie in scruffy patches on the ground; stubbornly dry, they have yet to rot away. The sunshine brings the first direct heat of the year, enough to warm our cheeks with hints of seasons to come. Am I imagining that the beech trunk is actually hot on its illuminated side? It does not strain the imagination to envisage the sap rising beneath the grey-green roughened bark, rejuvenated by April showers. Where the sunlight reaches the thin soil spring flowers accept the warmth and light; briefly, it is their time to flourish. After standing to contemplate the grandeur I now have to get down on my hands and knees to see what is happening at ground level. By the pathside are patches of heart-shaped leaves mottled with white; the sun glances off the tiny, glossy, butter-yellow petals of the lesser celandine, eight petals in a circle per flower, not unlike a child’s first drawing of what every flower should be. Celandines are growing in the company of dog violets, whose flowers are as complicated as the celandine’s are simple: the whole borne on an arched-over stem, carrying five blue-violet petals, of which the lowest is lip-like and marked with the most delicate dark lines converging towards the centre of the flower. At the very heart of it there is a subtle yellowing and, behind, a spur offering a treasure of nectar: clearly the whole structure is an inducement for pollinating insects – a road map promising a reward. Through the beech litter brilliant green blades of a grass, wood melick, are pushing upwards to seek their share of precious light. Near the edge of the wood, lobed leaves of ground elder form a mat of freshest green; this notorious garden weed is constrained to behave itself in the wild.

But close observations of wayside flowers may be something of a distraction from a Chiltern spectacular. Perhaps I prefer to taste a few appetisers before becoming overwhelmed by the main course. For just beyond a short sward of wood melick is a shoreline edging the glory of the April beech woods in England: a sea of bluebells. The whole forest floor beyond is coloured by thousands upon thousands of flowers; a sea – because it seems unbroken and intense, like the yachted waters in a Dufy painting. But the display might equally be described as a carpet of bluebells; that word is more appropriate to the floor of a natural cathedral. Besides, the hue is a dark and rich blue, a shade not truly belonging to the ocean. Rather it is the cobalt blue of decorated tin-glazed wares produced at Delft, in Holland. In these woods, a magical slip is washed over the floor of the woodland as if by the hand of a master; a glaze that lasts only a few weeks, but transforms the ground beneath the beeches. From a distance there is a vague fuzziness about it, as if the blueness were evaporating upwards. The show is produced by massed English bluebells, Hyacinthoides non-scripta, a species unique to western Europe. This is old Britain’s very own, very particular and extraordinarily beautiful celebration of early spring. There is no physical sign in our wood of the Spanish bluebell interloper Hyacinthoides hispanica, the common species in English gardens. It is a coarser plant, with a more upright spike of flowers, and generally less elegant. In many places it is hybridising with the native species.

Each bluebell arises from a white bulb the size of a small tomato, and produces a rosette of spear-like leaves and a single flower spike; none is much taller than your forearm. It takes hundreds to make a splash of colour. The bells hang down in a line along the raceme in a single graceful curve. ‘Raceme’ is scientifically correct, of course, but how I wish that we could refer to it as a ‘chime’. Flowers at the base of the spike open first, their six delicate petals curving backward to form a skirt that curves away from the creamy anthers; it takes a while for the whole display to be over, as each flower up the spike comes to perfection one after another. With a natural variation in flowering times according to aspect and local climate, there are a few woodland nooks where bluebells open up precociously, and others where they linger longer. But wherever they bloom, theirs is a short-lived glory; and only when they are seen in numbers can the delicate perfume they produce be appreciated. As they generally reproduce from a slow multiplication of their bulbs, rather than from seed, the masses of English bluebells seen in our woods are a reliable indicator that they are of ancient origin. Hence it is likely that the flowers that delight my eyes today have been admired for centuries from the same spot near the edge of this very wood. The temptation is to pick a great bunch of blooms, but in a vase they lose vibrancy; they need a myriad companions to assert their natural magnificence. A thrush singing in mellow, repetitive phrases from deep within a holly bush adds some sort of blessing.

This is our own piece of classic English beech woodland, gifted with bluebells, covered with trees for generations, and changing at the slow pace of sap rising and falling. When Lambridge Wood was subdivided by the previous owner our little piece of it was arbitrarily christened Grim’s Dyke Wood, after the ancient monument that passes through the wood. The new name added an irresistible whiff of romance to the sales pitch that helped us to part with our money. It is a triangular plot with nearly equal sides, two of them marked out by public footpaths. We access the north-east corner of the triangle by vehicle along a track through Lambridge Wood that leads to a converted barn adjacent to our piece of woodland; the barn has a picturesque cottage next door that will also feature in this book. On the ground, it is hard to detect a very gentle slope of the whole plot to the south, but the incline is enough to admit a magical influx of winter light in the afternoon with the setting sun. About four acres (1.6 hectares) of woodland is not exactly a vast tract of forest, but it is enough to include more than 180 mature beech trees, which I counted, and bluebells galore, which I didn’t.

Lambridge Wood sits high in the Chiltern Hills, thirty-five miles to the west of London, near the southern tip of the county of Oxfordshire. Although so near the capital, the wood could be ten times further away from it and would not gain a jot more feeling of remoteness. As I contemplate the bluebells only the occasional growl overhead from aeroplanes bound for Heathrow reminds me that there is a great urban sprawl so close to hand.

The Chiltern Hills form the high ground for a length of more than fifty miles north-west of London. They follow the course of the outcrop of the pure white limestone known as the Chalk.3 (#litres_trial_promo) The same rock makes the white cliffs of Dover, where England most closely approaches continental Europe; the sight of the cliffs has brought a lump into the throat of many a returning traveller, so it might be thought of as a peculiarly English rock, although it is actually widely spread around the world. As limestone goes, it is a very soft example of its kind – one that can be flaked with a penknife. Even so, it is harder and more homogeneous than the rocks that underlie it to the north, or overlie it in the direction of London, and differential weathering and erosion over hundreds of millennia has promoted the relative recession of the softer rocks to either side. The Chilterns stand proud.

The scarp slope along the northerly edge of the hills is surprisingly steep, and from the top of the Oxfordshire segment there are fine long views across the Vale of Aylesbury towards Oxford in the distance. That scarp lies only ten miles north-west of our wood. Half that distance away, Windmill Hill at Nettlebed is one of the highest points in southern England at 692 feet (211 metres) above sea level.4 (#litres_trial_promo) The tops of the Chiltern Hills are richly wooded compared with the intensively farmed lowlands on the gentle plain to the north, where a patchwork of neat green fields or brown ploughed farmland is the rule. Google Earth or the Ordnance Survey map reveal much the same pattern, whether seen from above or in plan. The high ground has long fostered special pastoral practices, in which woods played a continuous and important part in the rhythm of country life. That is why they have survived. Our tiny patch is just one small piece of a larger tapestry stitched together from irregular swatches of trees, stretching over many miles. Other kinds of farmland are interspersed, to be sure, and in some places there has been sufficient clearance for open downland. But near our patch, copse, shaw, hanger and wood dominate the landscape.

When I first walked through Lambridge Wood as a newcomer to the Chiltern Hills I was overwhelmed by a feeling of entering a realm of eternal nature. Here was the antidote to jaded city life. The woods are unchanging; they help to put our small concerns into perspective. They are restorative, havens for animals and plants; safe places for the spirit. Such a perspective drenches Edward Thomas’s rapt accounts of woodland in The South Country, and has a modern mirror in Roger Deakin’s Wildwood nearly a century later. Here is the farmer A.G. Street writing in 1933 after listing more than one disappointment of middle age: ‘The majesty of the wood remains unaltered. As I wandered slowly through it, the terrific importance of my trouble seemed to fade away. The peace of the wood and the comfort of the still trees soon iron out the creases in my soul.’5 (#litres_trial_promo) Surely some comparable emotion lay behind the enthusiasm with which we purchased Grim’s Dyke Wood, our own piece of peace. It was a romantic (or even Romantic) notion, and not wrong in its essentials. But, as Henry David Thoreau remarked of the English poets: ‘There is plenty of genial love of Nature but not so much of Nature herself.’6 (#litres_trial_promo) The wood has indeed given much pleasure, but much of that delight proves to be an intimate examination of nature close to. And I now know that the history of nature is not only natural history. The wood is not eternal – it is a construct, a human product. It was made by our ancestors, modified repeatedly, nearly obliterated, rescued by industry, forgotten and remembered by turn. The animals and plants rubbed along with history as best they could, mostly unconsidered except as meat, fuel and forage: the natural history was part and parcel of the human history. The result is what we see today. Romantic empathy with ‘Nature’ is all very well, but it does have to brush up against the hard grit of history, which can soon polish off any coating of wishful thinking.

So this book is both romantic and forensic, if such a combination is possible. My diary records the status of the beech trees and the animals and plants, the play of the light, the passage of the seasons, expeditions and people, and the incomparable pleasures of discovery. I have also taken samples from the wood to the laboratory to dissect under a microscope. I have invited help from experts to identify tiny animals – mostly insects – about which I know little. Add to this excursions into historical literature and archives, and much time spent scrutinising scratchy ancient maps, deeds and sales catalogues to understand how the wood fared under management for profit or pleasure, and its place in the economy of estate, county and country. I have interviewed those who have known the woods during long lives. There will be a little geology, and more than a touch of archaeology.

Several of my previous books have dealt with big themes: the history of life or the geology of the world refracted through a personal lens. This book is the other way round: a tiny morsel of a historic land looked at all ways. The sum of all my observations will lead to an understanding of biodiversity – the variety of animals, plants and fungi that share this small wood. Biodiversity does not just belong to tropical rainforests or coral reefs. Almost every habitat has its own rich assemblage of organisms competing, collaborating and connected. What is found today is the result of climate, habitat, pollution or lack of it, history and husbandry. For me, the poetry of the wood derives from close examination as much as from synthesis and sensibility. But I am aware that description alone does not necessarily lead to understanding. This example from what may be Wordsworth’s worst poem (‘The Thorn’) comes to mind:

And to the left, three yards beyond,

You see a little muddy pond

Of water – never dry

I measured it from side to side:

’Twas four feet long, and three feet wide.

The Darwin connection

Despite this dire topographic warning, I must describe the anatomy of the countryside around the wood, since it is crucial to this history. Grim’s Dyke (and Lambridge) Wood lies at the top of a locally high ridge, and immediately to the north of it a steep slope runs away continuously downwards to a rather busy road; that part of the incline below the barn has been cleared of trees, and is now occupied by a well-fenced deer park. The main road is partly a dual carriageway running westwards up a typical Chiltern dry valley and serves to connect the nearby small and historic town of Henley-on-Thames, where I live, with the larger and even more historic town of Wallingford thirteen miles away. Wallingford also lies adjacent to the Thames, but between it and Henley the great river takes an enormous southerly bend by way of big, bustling Reading, as if reluctant to breach the barrier of the Chiltern Hills. This it finally does – and most picturesquely – near the village of Goring, about seven miles from Wallingford, where the Chalk cliffs are steep enough on the eastern side of the floodplain to suggest a gorge. Geographers have more prosaically called it ‘the Goring Gap’. Robert Gibbings is the most charming writer on this and other stretches of the Thames.7 (#litres_trial_promo) I doubt I can live up to his blend of precise natural history with human observations of all kinds. The journey across country between Henley and Wallingford is very much shorter than the distance along the river, a fact that profoundly influenced the development of medieval Henley and its surroundings, including our small wood. Henley played an important part in the transport of goods and people between London and Oxford, and its story is inextricably bound up with that of the River Thames.

There are other ways to locate our wood within the English countryside. Ancient England is a curiously tessellated collage of different patterns of ownership and responsibility. Parish, village and manor all make different claims. Grim’s Dyke Wood lies near the edge of the old ecclesiastical parish of Henley-on-Thames, so its original church, as it were, is the fine, thirteenth-century flint-and-stone edifice of St Mary’s in the centre of town two miles away.8 (#litres_trial_promo) On the way out of Henley in the direction of Wallingford and Oxford the road is dead straight and splendidly bordered with wide grass verges and avenues of trees. This is the Fair Mile, appropriately named, and the ecclesiastical parish extends out in this direction. At the end of the Fair Mile, a minor road forks off to the right along another valley to Stonor, while the main road continues uphill towards Nettlebed and Wallingford. At this point our wood lies at the top of the slope on the skyline to the left (and south). The fork in the road marks the end of the village of Lower Assendon, and is very near to the wood as the red kite flies, which it frequently does around here. Smoke from Assendon chimneys can be smelled in the wood. Assendon also houses the Golden Ball, the closest pub, which seems nearly as ancient as the hills, and is reached by a steep downhill scramble along a path descending from Lambridge Wood. At the top of the hill, and further away from Lambridge, another ancient village with the briefest possible name – Bix – is arranged around a huge common, and is in a different parish.

But more important to our story than either parish or village is the manor. For most of its recorded history Lambridge Wood, including our piece of it, has been part of the manor of Greys. The manor house, Greys Court, is a remarkable survivor, just a mile away from Grim’s Dyke Wood. Both the house and the estate are now managed by the National Trust, and thousands of visitors flock there. These benign crowds of pensioners and picnickers arriving by car make it difficult to imagine the house as a remote backwater, but there was a time when the Chiltern Hills were wild and inaccessible. Criminals could go to ground there; religious dissenters could hide there. Greys Court still commands the least urban aspect in the Home Counties. From the garden lawn the modern road is hardly visible, and the view is dominated by a broad, clear valley dotted with sheep and flanked on either side by dense beech woods. It could still be a landscape through which horses provided the only transport, at a time when London belonged to another world.

Although substantial, Greys Court could hardly be described as a stately home. Part twelfth-century fortified castle, and part Tudor mansion, it remained in private hands from medieval times until 1969. In a brick outhouse an extraordinarily ancient donkey wheel resembling some cock-eyed wooden fairground attraction was used until the twentieth century to lift water from a well excavated deep down into the chalk. It is not difficult to imagine how a place like Greys Court might roll with the blows of history, battening down at times of hardship, fattening up in times of plenty. The extensive estate could provide what was needed: sufficient arable land for wheat and barley, pasture for cattle and sheep, from the beech stands fuel and wild game, and good water from the well. Lambridge Wood lay along the northern edge of the estate. Land nearer the big house was more likely to come under cultivation, so the marginal position of the wood doubtless contributed to its long-term survival. It was always useful just where it was.

The parish church for Greys Court, where the grand names belonging to the big house are interred, is a tiny, flint construction with a low tower, close by the road in Rotherfield Greys, a hamlet that also has the second-nearest pub to our wood, the Maltsters Arms. Church and pub can be reached from the wood on public footpaths leading southwards and crossing open fields for a little more than a mile. I have never met anyone else on these old rights of way. The paths that run along the River Thames just a couple of miles away are crowded with walkers, but the open Chilterns are still the province of the skylark and the stroller. On a clear spring day, the low hills conceal endless possibilities, all of them joyous. The Maltsters Arms is one of those cosy pubs with exposed oak beams on low ceilings, real fires, no background music, and a landlord who actually seems to like his customers.

The church is next to the pub, as tradition demands. A large chunk of its interior is taken up by a side chapel devoted to the monuments of the masters and mistresses of Greys Court, and principal among these is the exuberant and splendid alabaster and marble tomb of Sir Francis Knollys (d.1596) and Katherine, his wife. Their effigies lie side by side praying in formal splendour, while around the tomb seven sons and seven daughters parade in a pious line. Most touching is a tiny baby who died in infancy, whose effigy lies alongside that of his father. Sir Francis was a noted courtier of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. I like the thought that on his days away from court Sir Francis may have wandered in our wood for pleasure, or maybe hunted game there. On the floor of the nave a brass to Robert de Grey (d.1388) is altogether more modest, even though the manor and church both bear his name. Clad partly in chain mail, his sword by his side, and gauntlets still frozen in metallic prayer, he seems more a grand cipher than a real person.

In the countryside, for many centuries manors and estates were paramount. Those who owned the estates neighbouring Greys provided its society. These nearby manors suffered the same pestilences and plagues, and shared good years and bad. The lords and gentry knew one another, and paid formal and informal visits. They eventually became what my mother would have termed ‘county’. From time to time the estates were home to remarkable historical figures; at others their occupants were quietly obscure. The status of peasantry and servants and artisans changed gradually, but all the estates had to absorb the changes, which continue today. The closest estate to our wood – and Greys manor – was Fawley Court and Henley Park to the north: a pigeon could fly from Grim’s Dyke Wood into the Park in a minute. To the east lay Badgemore. The fine house has now vanished, and what remains of it is a golf club. While further still to the north a small and perfectly set stately home remains in its own valley; the Stonor family that lives there boasts more than eight hundred years of occupancy, and one of the longest continuous lineages in Great Britain.

Another map ties the wood more closely with Rotherfield Greys than with Henley-on-Thames. Civil parishes are the basic unit of local government, and frequently do not have the same boundaries as the ancient ecclesiastical parishes. They elect councillors, not priests, and their boundaries were sorted out at the end of the nineteenth century to make a more sensible system of local administration. Our wood lies in the civil parish of Rotherfield Greys, even though it is ecclesiastically Henley; this is appropriate to its other links with the big house. It seems that Lambridge Wood was always on the edge of some map or parish or village, which may be a good place to be to pass unnoticed. And like many other woodlands, our wood was also free from tithes: a 10 per cent levy on the income derived from the land once provided the principal source of income to support the local church. Following an Act of Parliament in 1836 a schedule of tithes was compiled across England, and in the Oxfordshire Record Office a map of 18409 (#litres_trial_promo) portrays Lambridge Wood with considerable accuracy. The accompanying ledger prepared by a clerk in best copperplate script declares it ‘exempt’. I occasionally put a pound coin in the box at Rotherfield Greys as a token of expiation.

In 1922 Lambridge Wood was sold off from the Greys estate after a history stretching back to Domesday. We have the map detailing ‘Lambridge Farm and 160 acres of woodland’ which was sold in Henley Town Hall on 26 July to George Shorland, a rich farmer and entrepreneur who had purchased land all around Henley. The modern era of Lambridge Wood had begun, and the unbroken thread leading back to medieval times had been severed. We will meet some of the subsequent owners later on, but now I am going to take a jump to 1969, when Lambridge Wood passed into the ownership of Sir Thomas Erasmus Barlow, Bt, whose heirs owned it until as recently as 2010. I admit that the name meant nothing to me. Sir Thomas was the third baronet to carry the title, and a distinguished naval commander. In a fairly perfunctory way, I started one of those online searches that have become routine for writers, as they have for almost everybody else. I moved backwards in time as far as I could. The First Baronet, another Thomas, had been Queen Victoria’s private physician, a man who died dripping with honours, and no doubt had an outstanding bedside manner. The Second Baronet, Sir Alan Barlow, father of Thomas Erasmus, was scarcely less distinguished as a civil servant in the grand tradition, serving as Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald’s Principal Private Secretary from 1933 to 1934. But then I discovered something that caused the mouse to freeze in my fist. Alan Barlow had married Nora Darwin. A magical name had somehow found its way into the genealogy of the wood. If one thread had been severed, another had been established. It did not take much more research to establish that Nora was the granddaughter of Charles Darwin. So our wood, the subject of my own modest natural history investigations, had recently belonged to a direct descendant of the greatest natural historian of all time.

I happen to know another direct Darwin descendant who worked with me at the Natural History Museum, the botanist Sarah Darwin. The Darwins are an unusually distinguished clan, and the present generation respects the ramifications of the dynasty. Charles Darwin’s grandfather Erasmus sired one of those lineages that seem to have done nothing but good in the world: the third Sir Thomas’s middle name must have been a nod in the direction of the grand old progenitor. Sarah knows the current baronet, Sir James Barlow; not least, they are both Ambassadors for the Galapagos Conservation Trust, which seeks to protect the world’s most famous natural evolutionary laboratory from further damage through foolish exploitation. In the autumn of 2014 Sarah introduced me to Sir James and his sister Monica. I met them both in our wood, and together we traced a path through Lambridge that they had not done for many years. James remembered his grandmother, who, he said, had been dandled on Darwin’s knee. So there I was, talking to somebody whose grandmother might have giggled and snuggled into the breast of the incomparable naturalist. I know that a number of generations back we are all related somehow – it is just a matter of statistics – but none of my friends or colleagues (apart from Sarah) has any direct link with Charles Darwin. It is difficult not to see this connection as a kind of blessing for the project – in the most secular meaning of that word, of course.

As we ambled through Lambridge Wood James and Monica explained that their father had been very much the conservationist until his death in 2003. Some parts of the wood (not ours) had been clear felled in rectangular plots, and replanted with conifers, mostly larch and Corsican pine. These are not natural trees to find in the Chiltern Hills; on the aerial view they show up as intensely dark-green areas quite distinct from the undulating beech crowns. The intention was to harvest the mature larch for pit props, but that project was evidently ill-conceived, since the Barlow ownership of the wood coincided almost exactly with the terminal decline of coalmining in Great Britain. Now, some of our fellow small wood owners are simply removing the larch to allow the broadleaved forest to recover. There is a great pile of conifer offcuts near the entrance to our wood; I decided to leave these fragments of mistaken forestry in order to study the processes of decay.

Elsewhere, the beech wood seems to have been left quietly to get on with being a beech wood, helped by periodic thinning. The manager of the wood was John Mooney, and the Barlows told me that they knew him as ‘Eeyore’ because of his pessimistic prognostications for making any money out of the wood. His annual accounts always finished with a thumping loss. It is as well that Barlow senior was primarily interested in good ecological stewardship, for all his correspondence from Mr Mooney is steeped in wry gloom.10 (#litres_trial_promo) The wood was under threat from trespassers, he said, or horse riders who cut barbed-wire fences, and poachers who poached. Deer of all species curtailed almost all regeneration, and what little was left was damaged by squirrels. The whole business was hamstrung by interfering busybodies and/or charlatans from the Campaign for the Preservation of Rural England and official bodies like English Nature. In 2000 his annual summary finished magisterially: ‘It has been getting progressively worse for the past 25 years [before] hitting this nadir.’

Then Harry Potter came to the rescue. From 2001 onwards J.K. Rowling’s novels about the young wizard were adapted for the screen, and the movies were watched by countless children. Many of them wanted their very own broomstick so they could play quidditch and generally fly about the place. The heads of the broomsticks were made from bound bundles of twigs, and the right kinds of twiggy shoots could easily be cut from birch trees and regenerating stumps in Lambridge Wood. More than a century ago there was an artisan known as a ‘broom squire’ who plied his trade deep in the beech woods, so it was a traditional skill.11 (#litres_trial_promo) Now there was an unprecedented broom boom, a besom bonanza. James Barlow said that they couldn’t supply enough to the toy trade. In the end Lambridge Wood as a whole made at least a little money, in a thoroughly ecologically respectable way.

The distribution of trees today in our patch of Grim’s Dyke Wood is likely to have been much the same when Sir Thomas bought the whole woodland, except that the beeches have had another forty years or so to increase their girth and height. Mr Mooney recorded that the wood escaped comparatively lightly from the great storm of October 1987, which flattened whole woods elsewhere (it didn’t cheer him up). Many of the beeches are between ten and twenty paces apart, close enough to provide total leaf cover in summer, although there are several small clearings, and a large one on the northern edge where felling must have been more recent. Although beech is dominant, other kinds of woodland trees are a delightful addition to the silviculture. Eighteen magnificent wild cherry trees shoot skyward on sheer trunks to the same height as the beeches. Three stately ash trees decked in yellowish bark have spawned uncountable numbers of offspring. Less noticeable are wych elms discreetly hiding among the beeches. We have a total of just two oak trees, one of them a fine specimen, the other something of a poor relation, both tall. The same number of yew trees are the only conifers in our wood; these two are just at the beginning of their long, long lives. I scratched around for hours among brambles before finding a solitary field maple, and a tiny youngster at that, but I am glad to have it in my inventory.

Then there is the understory: trees of lesser stature that will grow happily in the shade of their towering neighbours. The most obvious is plentiful dark-green holly – probably too much holly. Still, I welcome it where its prickly evergreen foliage makes an almost impenetrable screen twice as high as a man around my favourite part of the wood: the Dingley Dell. Not quite in the middle of our patch, the Dell surrounds two of our most impressive old beech trees, which have been christened the King and the Queen. Unlike many of our beeches they don’t soar away upwards immediately; there is a little spread of branches. Beneath these giants the ground is clear except for a covering of old leaves. Sitting on a log there in the April sunshine I feel as content as a dog before a fire. It is a place to write up my notes, and eat bacon sandwiches. Around the Dingley Dell a few old coppices of hazel – a traditional Chiltern undercrop – produce clusters of long, unbranched trunks almost straight from near the ground; these are of several ages and hence variable thickness. Some of the branches are dead – they need attention. A couple of young birch trees are growing on the edge of the large clearing. All these tree species have become old friends, and like all my friends they have quirks and history and several failings. We shall get to know them all.

Cherry blossom

During April the wild cherry blooms at the same time as the bluebells, but the cherry flowers are displaying high in the canopy. In hand I examine a flower head that has fallen down from above: coppery young leaves, half a dozen at the tip of the shoot all pointy and enthusiastic as if they should cry, ‘Forward, forward!’ But then behind this tip is a natural flower arrangement – ten little bundles of white cherry blossom coming off a grey-brown stick. They are arranged in clusters of four or five blooms, each one held on a green ‘matchstick’ an inch long. Every flower carries five notched, almost perfectly white petals surrounding yellow stamens, which are tiny threads with spherical heads like miniature pins (and in the centre of the flower, hardly grander, the style and stigma). Five red-brown sepals bend backwards from the flower as if to feign deference to the performance going on in front, which might be described as a cluster of tutus; and each bunch of flowers emerges from another five-fold arrangement of bracts next to the stem. So the twig is a series of bouquets topped by a flourish of leaves, a brief, exuberant festival of white blossom fifty feet above the common view. An early feast for insects, I suppose. Why do we need those double garden varieties of flowering cherry – ‘flore pleno’ and the rest? Admittedly they do augment the resemblance of the flowers to tutus, but there is already enough in the solitary blossoms. A Japanese artist might lose himself in a flower or ten: so short-lived, so fragile, like rice paper crimped into snowflakes. Even now a gentle snowfall of petals tumbling from high above is settling on last year’s old beech leaves; in an hour or two the sun will have frizzled them into obscurity.

Butterflies appear suddenly in some numbers, and not just the umber-brown speckled wood butterflies, flitting erratically like camouflaged and subtle ghosts in and out of the shade, but also brimstone butterflies as bright and freshly coloured as primrose flowers. These last arrivals almost make up for the absence of real primroses in the wood, for the iconic springtime flower does not deign to live in the sparse, poor soil of Lambridge (this saddens me, as Darwin worked on primroses). A solitary peacock butterfly, a battered survivor of the winter frosts, with eyed wings shredded at their margins, is sunning itself on a bramble in the clearing, the better to gather the energy for a final burst of egg-laying. A green-veined white lingers for a second, then flits past and away.

I have evidently become attuned to the Class Insecta. In the midst of the bluebell sea, open flowers are pollinated by large bumblebees that delicately hang off pendent blossoms that look too frail to carry them. I fancy they are like oversize clappers hanging off the bells. I believe I can recognise the white-tailed (Bombus lucorum) and red-tailed (Bombus lapidarius) species, not least because they have a convenient dab of the appropriate colour at the end of their fuzzy abdomens. A huge red-tailed bumblebee must be a queen on the search for an old mousehole in which to establish a new colony. She buzzes about the cherry roots, and she won’t have long to wait to find a suitable site. While I am crouching among the bulbs, a ‘pretend’ bumblebee whizzes past me that I know to be the bee fly (Bombilius major), one of nature’s cruel deceivers. Although fuzzy and generally bee-like, it is no bee at all (it is closer to a bluebottle). It carries a long proboscis at its head end, and I watch it dart forward into and back out of a flower to feed on nectar, so it really is an entomological humming bird as much as anything. But it reproduces by laying its eggs near a true bees’ colony, and its larvae crawl into the ‘nest’ where they consume the bees’ grubs. In fact, it is an entomological Iago. I recall that Darwin described how deception was commonplace in nature; the man himself apparently so free of duplicity.

This is the day when all the male birds sing out passionately for a mate. Their plumage is buffed and preened, spring-ready. I am an amateur at birdsong, but I cannot mistake the sweet and penetrating phrase of the song thrush, repeated thrice or so, as if to emphasise its originality, for the next phrase is always different, and always repeated in its turn. I can pick out the implausibly loud song of the tiny jenny wren with a little rattle at the end of its performance. The songs of the robin redbreast and the blackbird I know well from my own garden. But I would not have recognised the nuthatch’s broadcast had I not seen the handsome blue-backed bird sing from a bare twig: a kind of ‘pwee-pwee-pwee’ – simple and penetrating. Can it be that there is an inverse relationship between the showiness of the plumage and the beauty of the song? The nightingale and the most musical of the warblers are pretty ordinary of feather, while the extravagant peacock’s raucous cry appeals only to other peacocks and the English aristocracy. Somewhere in the middle of this aesthetic spectrum, black-yellow-green great tits are everywhere in the wood uttering their repeated high regular notes – ‘tee-too’, possibly – which is hardly spectacular. The more sibilant, guttural, chatty conversation of the blue tit is more appropriate for such a small and bouncy cheeky chappie. Just now many blue tits hop rapidly about the denser branches whistling to one another, ‘Here we are!’ What I cannot do (pace the nuthatch) is reliably locate the source of all the birdsong; it seems to emanate in a general and celebratory way from almost everywhere. I begin to understand those descriptions of whole woods ‘bursting into song’. The distant drumming of a woodpecker, a sporadic, hollow-sounding percussion, provides all that is needed for a backbeat to the avian orchestra. But then I briefly catch a glimpse of a timid tree creeper dodging behind a beech trunk, almost furtively working its way rapidly up the tree in search of insects tucked into tiny crannies in the bark that it can pick out with its curved bill. It moves in silence.

One cry is at odds with the general vernal celebration – a kind of wheezy, cross-sounding phrase repeated irregularly. Our pair of woodland buzzards are wheeling and gliding slowly round and round high overhead, as if barred from the general celebration below. Theirs is a simple call, almost like that of a baby working up to something more exciting. I had seen them yesterday flying through the wood itself: weighty, serious birds that appeared too substantial to negotiate their flightpath between the trees, something they nevertheless did with aplomb. Lambridge Wood is their patch. Beware, small rodents and unwary birds! If it turns out to be a good year for them, it will be a good year for the buzzards too.

Among the bluebells my eye is taken by something much more turquoise: a thrush’s egg lying on the ground. It looks so perfect at first glance; a Mediterranean-summer blue overlaid with just a few black dots. I then remark a ragged hole in one side – somebody has taken it from its clay-lined nest and consumed the contents. The buzzards are exonerated (too much of the egg survives); I suspect a grey squirrel. I cradle the empty shell in the middle of my palm. It is almost impossibly light. Surely this must be the first item for my wood collection; I must cherish it.

And then my eye is caught by a perfectly white bluebell, just one among so many thousands of the common kind. I suppose it should be called a whitebell. It is as rare as a sober Irishman on St Patrick’s Day, but much more conspicuous. It stands out from the crowd, visible yards away. It is the result of a natural mutation. If it were a successful mutation I suppose there would be many more of them, but there it is, living proof of that molecular part of the science of evolution that Charles Darwin did not know about. Just one tiny change on the DNA code and blue becomes white. Since most bluebell reproduction is from the proliferation of the bulbs, if I had a mind I could lift this example, nurture it in my garden, and artificially ensure its success. I could call it variety ‘Grim’s Dyke’. The origin of so many white garden flowers is thus revealed: white campanulas, that are so blue in the hedgerows; white pinks (never, after all, ‘pink whites’); white honesty; even white pelargoniums. Like the wild cherry, some are born white; others have whiteness thrust upon them.






Ground elder soup

The first ground elder shoots (Aegopodium podagraria) are prolific near the edge of the wood. This plant is a notorious garden weed that, once established, is almost impossible to eradicate from the herbaceous border, but in a wood it makes a prettier sight and a more constrained patch. Its lobed and divided leaves appear well before parsley-like flowers. When the leaves are young and pale green, I discovered that they are a good vegetable; they become rank a month later. So there is a different way to view ground elder: as food! Ground elder soup is simple to make. A bagful of young leaves is gathered easily enough. The coarser stalks must be broken off, and the leaves are roughly chopped. A finely-sliced onion is softened by frying in butter, until it just starts to caramelise. At this point a medium-sized floury potato is added, chopped into small cubes, and placed with the leaves and onion in a heavy pot, and then a generous quantity of stock (or 1½ to two pints of water and a chicken or vegetable stock cube) together with a pinch of mixed herbs and pepper to taste. After it has been brought to the boil it is simply a matter of simmering over a low heat until the potato is soft, when the whole can be blended in a liquidiser. Croutons or a swirl of cream add a finishing touch. I should say that there are other wild members of the parsley family that are poisonous, most particularly hemlock. There should be no risk of mistaking the feathery leaves of hemlock for the rose-like leaves of ground elder, but if in doubt leave well alone.









2

May (#u23fb6c70-d4e8-5cb8-b83c-f2a3a378b8ce)


First felling

It has been raining for several days, but there is still not enough closed canopy aloft to provide any kind of shelter. The beech trunks are sodden, and now also distinctly green: rainfall has woken up tiny algae and liverworts living on the bark, and they are growing rapidly while they can. A large log near one of the paths has been rotting away for years, and what remains of its wood absorbs water like a sponge: maybe it was a standing cherry ten years ago. A bright-yellow lobe is growing out from one side of it, an excrescence both luminous and unnatural in its brilliance, like a glowing and irregular ox tongue. Every day it seems to add another inch or so, as if licking itself into further substance. The fungus is feeding on the wood: I know it as the fruiting body of the sulphur polypore (Laetiporus sulfureus).1 (#litres_trial_promo) I have seen it on several trees, but it does have a common preference for wild cherry (Prunus avium). When it is further developed I know it will become more like a bracket, and on its underside hundreds of tiny pores will develop, marking the ends of tubes in which its spores are produced in their millions to waft away on the lightest breeze, randomly seeking out the perfect tree on which to germinate and prosper anew.

This damp period favours natural succulence – living things that are full of juice. On another part of the log three or four bright-pink-coloured balls are the size of small children’s marbles. They too look unnatural, like dropped beads of coral that have no place in a beech wood in England in spring. Prodded with a finger, they burst like boils, spattering pink juice. My daughter hates them, despite my protestations that they have a weird beauty. They are the reproductive spheres of a plasmodial slime mould, Lycogala epidendrum.2 (#litres_trial_promo) As its common name implies, it was once thought of as fungal, but it is not a mould of any kind, though the sliminess cannot be gainsaid. Today the balls are forming everywhere in groups on the woodpile near the barn, dozens of them. They thrive in the damp. For the earlier part of their life cycle they moved along and through the forest floor, like amoebae, in a subtle but bounded transparent body with thousands of nuclei, where they soaked up nutrients from decaying organic matter. If my daughter were to say they were creepy at this stage, that would be no less than the truth. They creep and they grow. When they have grown enough – and it is an interesting question just what it is that says, ‘Enough!’ – they change character more thoroughly than did Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde. They glide up to a higher piece of dead wood to turn into those pink balls. At this stage the transformation is incomplete, but in a week or two the balls will have turned brown and become much less conspicuous. A few weeks later they will have transformed into masses of umber-brown microscopical spores – dust, to the eye – and will then be blown to the four winds. On another piece of wet wood I discover a weft of tiny, white, delicate gelatinous fingers hanging down like stalactites: it is another ‘slimer’ (Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa). There’s a sudden vision of the wood as a mass of almost invisible cells sliding and questing through the dampness.

The sun returns at last, and with it a gentle breeze. The weak solar rays pick out the fluttering foliage of freshly unfurled beech leaves in the softest shades of pale green – almost yellow in a certain light. On the ground lie hundreds of tiny brown bracts that had encased the nascent leaves over winter in thin, spiky buds. Now they are redundant. I examine a new beech leaf under a lens: it is fringed with white hairs more delicate than a baby’s eyelashes. It has not yet acquired anything of its summer rigidity; it is like tissue paper. On the low branches of the trees the leaves quiver gently, making tiers of light thrown into contrast against the unchanging dark of the holly. It is almost as if we were under water, and the leaves were being stirred by invisible currents. Where the sun sneaks through the forest to illuminate the cherry trees the polished surfaces of their bark shine almost silver.

Cousin John is felling a beech tree that is leaning dangerously over the public footpath. Accidents in woods caused by falling branches are very rare – most people have the sense to stay out of the woods during tornados. But beeches sometimes shed a whole branch just for the hell of it: these are called ‘widow-makers’ (they never fall on girls). We cannot have that happen to a passing dog-walker. John starts with a saw on a long pole to trim off the side branches. One of them almost touches the ground, such is the curve on the tree over the path. He can reach more branches with a chainsaw borne aloft on a staff; then, with a bigger chainsaw, the main action. The saw makes a raucous, grating racket, with something of the unforgiving persistence of the dentist’s drill about it. John is a professional, so he sports massive earmuffs and mighty gauntlets. Bystanders are reduced to making encouraging gestures and gurning amiably.

There is only one way for the tree to fall, but there is a skill to making the cuts so that it does not spring any surprises. The poor beech groans, crackles like a fusillade of fireworks, and then it is down, just like that. With a girth of three feet there is a lot of firewood to be mined. Despite its lopsidedness the tree is still very much alive, so now on the ground its branches stick up all stiff and unnatural, decked in new leaves that flutter in the breeze for the last time. They will be limp by next morning. The centre of the trunk proves to be quite rotten – black, and hollowing out. The tree would have cracked eventually, so it was as well we took it down. The fungal damage extends further up the trunk until it is visible only as a curious kind of dark hieroglyph in the centre of the log. John cuts lengths from the upper part of the tree that will be taken away in his van to be sawn into rounds, then split into logs for next year’s open fires at home. The fat end of the tree is winched into a position where we can use it as a rustic seat in future and study its slow decay. The brash is carried into the wood to rot away and return to the soil. Who would believe that one, not particularly large, tree could generate so much work?

Falling beech branches have crushed a few bluebells, but no matter, they are already showing signs of decline. The great sea of blooms has deepened to an azure colour, and still looks unbroken from afar, but the lower flowers on the spikes are already blousy and fading. Their dark-green blades of leaves have lost the vigour of their youth, and have started to become flaccid and unenthusiastic. But as one flower starts to fade, another prospers.

Patches of ground near the bluebells are covered with neatly tiered rosettes of lance-shaped leaves. A cluster of tiny white flowers crowns each tier; this plant is the perennial sweet woodruff (Galiumodoratum), no taller than the bluebell. Each flower in the cluster has only four wee petals; under my lens the edges of the leaves can be seen to be lined with minute prickles that can be felt by gingerly stroking a finger along their margins – usually eight delicate leaves to a whorl. As for the sweetness implied in both the common and the Latin name, this little plant has a fragrance more persuasive than that of any bluebell. Its sweetness grows as the woodruff is dried – which it does readily. I placed a bunch in a warm airing cupboard and it was preserved in a day. Dried woodruff was once slipped between the sheets to sweeten bedding, so the sleeper might dream of woods in spring. The scent of new-mown hay is the same chemical agent (coumarin) as in woodruff, but only if that hay has sweet vernal grass as one of its components. Sweet woodruff is used to flavour traditional springtime drinks and sweets in Germany, though its German name of Waldmeister (‘master of the woods’) seems too assertive for such a refined little plant. My son thought to try it as a ‘botanical’ to flavour gin; there has been a revival in boutique spirits, and he wants to be ahead of the Zeitgeist. Although juniper berries are the traditional flavoring for gin, all kinds of refinements are possible by steeping other herbs and spices in the spirit. Experimental Batch Number One was rather overpowering, but Experimental Batch Number Two turned out to be delicious. It was presented with a tasteful label featuring the wood in spring. Grim’s Dyke Gin may yet feature in some future genre market.

Bluebell and sweet woodruff are specialists. Not every bulb or herb can thrive in our beech woodland. Timing is all. These plants have to steal as much light as they can before the canopy shuts off the sunshine. There is really no option but to flower in spring. They join the dog violet and the lesser celandine in the early shift. Wood melick, which makes something approaching a field of lively green over parts of the wood in May, will produce its nodding rod of single flowers and then fade before summer is over. The bluebells’ burst of photosynthetic activity is done even before the beech leaves mature, and the energy the plants have gained during their brief but glorious exuberance is stored in the bulb. Job done, everything above ground withers away. The lesser celandine’s3 (#litres_trial_promo) pretty, heart-shaped leaves also enjoy but a brief existence; they soon turn yellow and shrivel. They too sequester energy in little cream-coloured, bulb-like storehouses that linger in a somewhat scrotal cluster below the ground through most of the year. I have seen similar-looking bulblets form at leaf junctions, any one of which might produce a new plant next season. The leaves of sweet woodruff and violets linger on, a little dowdily, after flowering, but the woodruff has a strong root network that can survive a major drought unharmed. I add two more pleasing spring flowers discovered from snuffling around in the wood: a discreet purple-flowered wood speedwell, Veronica montana, modestly creeping along a pathside where there is a little more light, and a pretty buttercup, goldilocks (Ranunculus auricomus), with apparently much the same requirements. Both have the kind of understated beauty that rewards a little botanical nous.

Our slowly spreading English bluebell is a marker for ancient woodlands. Stately wood spurge (Euphorbia amygdaloides) tells the same story, and I have found it in four places. It almost makes a small shrub. Its young, leafy shoots are a lovely coppery hue and slightly pendent, contrasting well with the flowering heads, which are a lively green. All spurges have peculiar flowers, unlike those of any other plant. They have none of the usual paraphernalia: no petals or sepals, and the reproductive parts are reduced to the minimum. What could be mistaken for petals are actually yellow-green leafy bracts that form a kind of cup around the minimalist sexual business. A cluster of these distinctive structures makes the flower head. Unlike lesser celandines and bluebells, the spurge plant stays on in the wood, gradually losing its fine vernal contrasts, and fading with dignity. I have seen spurge species thriving in deserts looking just like cacti, and others creeping on seashores, and yet more growing far too vigorously in my vegetable patch, so it is scarcely a surprise to find one species that likes to live in old Chiltern beech woods. All spurges carry a horrible, poisonous white sap that seeps out if a leaf or stem is broken. Once I accidentally rubbed a minute amount of the milk into my eye and danced around for two hours in excruciating agony, weeping profusely. I cannot recall such a painful reaction since they closed my favourite Chiltern pub (the Dog and Duck).

Men of letters

Writers are not a rare species. They seem to crop up everywhere, rather like spurges, although some are less poisonous. I confess that at first I thought I would have my patch of Chiltern Hills beech woods to myself. I was wrong. Over the brow of the ridge behind Lambridge Wood Barn, in the village of Lower Assendon, and just beyond the Fair Mile leading out of Henley-on-Thames in the Oxford direction, a small Tudor cottage decked in oak beams was home for several decades to a famous writer: Cecil Roberts. In the 1930s Roberts published a series of three books centred on Pilgrim Cottage: GoneRustic, Gone Rambling and Gone Afield. I now have them all in hardback, though had I not bought Grim’s Dyke Wood I would probably never have heard of this particular author. Gone Rustic was reprinted at least six times: it was a bestseller. All the books are charming, gossipy, name-dropping confections about life in a kind of idealised Rustic. Beneath the dustjackets they have bas-relief covers with cottagey timber framing built in. Roberts’s is the same world as that in which Hercule Poirot joined genial house parties in small stately homes only to find His Lordship dead in the drawing room. It has an exact fictional match in E.F. Benson’s Mapp and Lucia novels, set in a genteel part of Sussex where private incomes would pay for housekeepers and cooks, and the protagonists could concentrate on painting watercolours and choosing chrysanthemum varieties. Working-class country folk tended to have only colourful walk-on parts.

According to Cecil Roberts’s account in Gone Rustic, he discovered Pilgrim Cottage in 1930 by accident after sustaining a puncture on the road from Henley to Oxford. He writes: ‘Around me the view was imposing, almost Tyrolean, with steep larch covered hillsides, and in the distance between thick beech woods nobly clothing the greensward, a ravine.’ The last may have been a reference to the gentle valley leading to Stonor. Pilgrim Cottage is still much as it was in the middle of the twentieth century. Cecil’s upstairs windows would have commanded a view of Lambridge Wood on the near skyline, so he really was a neighbour. I imagine him fussing around his garden, absorbed in his gladioli, while instructing his housekeeper to lay tea for the Marchesa, who would be arriving betimes in the Hispano-Suiza. Pilgrim Cottage, he complained, was positively deluged with visitors, all of them fascinating, making the necessary wielding of his pen a matter of some concern. In spite of all his socialising, he did manage to produce a quantity of books and much verse. The core of his Pilgrim Cottage books is provided by local history, well described, and much of it relevant to my story; and his tales of local craftsmen are invaluable. His other love is Italy, and he jumps to Venice and palazzos and the story of the Finzi-Continis at every hint of a metaphor. His interest in natural history was as perfunctory as his interest in gardening and sunbathing was obsessive. The Chilterns provided a green backdrop to his real concerns, which were always human.

Cecil Roberts had another life during the Second World War. Pilgrim Cottage and its stories had a great following in the United States. Their appeal may have been rather akin to the current popularity of sagas featuring big houses and their goings-on a century ago. Roberts was recruited to aid the war effort by giving lecture tours in America, which he evidently did with great success. The New York Times reported that ‘the best propaganda in the world is the British and the most efficient expression we witnessed were the lectures held all over the USA by the noted author, Cecil Roberts. These lectures never had the flavor of propaganda but brought more good will towards Britain than anything else.’4 (#litres_trial_promo) His charm could obviously do its work far away from the Thames Valley.

When the conflict was over Roberts felt he had not received sufficient official recognition for his efforts. He tried to restore the balance by publishing his autobiography in no fewer than five volumes. Rowena Emmett, daughter of Mr and Mrs Plater, the next occupants of Pilgrim Cottage in 1953, told me that for many years beaming Americans would turn up at their garden gate requesting permission for photographs. ‘It was,’ she said, ‘quite a nuisance.’ The former owner did not downplay the fame of Pilgrim Cottage. He had written to the Platers advising, ‘many thousands all over the world love it, for it symbolizes England for them’. When Rowena met Cecil Roberts she was a young schoolgirl, and she found him more than a little alarming. She later realised that his manner was just very camp. A modern reading of Gone Rambling would leave little doubt about the author’s sexual orientation, with its panegyrics to bare-chested Italian sawyers whose ‘skin, tanned a warm mahogany by the Venetian sun, gleamed and caught a hundred tones and facets of light as the muscles glided with cryptic strength beneath their satin sheaths’; to say nothing of some very ambiguous poems.

I cannot help wondering how Cecil Roberts might have been regarded by the locals in the Golden Ball in those less tolerant times. Maybe they just thought he was from London. He seems to have been genuinely helpful with his time and money in the village, and nearly always described its inhabitants sympathetically. He appreciated the efforts of his gardeners, including Charles Crewe, who lived in a damp dwelling with none of the usual services on the very edge of Lambridge Wood. Roberts was determinedly anti-fascist. I was surprised to learn that his origins in Nottingham were far from aristocratic. He was a self-made man, living mostly from his prolific pen, whose name-dropping was probably an exuberant validation of his reinvention. ‘Mon dieu!’ his special and amusing spinster friend Miss Whissitt might have exclaimed. ‘Tu es une arriviste!’

H.J. Massingham is altogether more astringent. His 1940 book Chiltern Country deals with the whole range of hills in luminous language. His feel for natural observation is superb. Much of his work is driven by fury about the spread – no, the rash – of homely villas outwards from London. He mourns the ‘real England, the England in which the hills, the vales, the waters, the crops, the roads, the buildings, the natives and the rock that bore them up all on its back were intricately bound together in an organic system not unlike the human body’.5 (#litres_trial_promo) The country cottages that have withstood the centuries – and the worthy souls who have earned their living around them for as long – are becoming overwhelmed by red-brick mediocrities planted about with shrubs that don’t belong. Beech woods become desirable scenic accessories rather than essential resources. For Massingham the country beyond Rickmansworth was irretrievable, and the country around High Wycombe was doomed. The spread of the Metropolitan Line from London into the hills was a sinister fungus that sprouted despicable edifices – suburbia: ‘the touch of it annihilates identity in place’. His ruralism stands at the other extreme to the poet John Betjeman’s sympathetic regard for what he termed ‘Metroland’, a land of healthy young women and clean semi-detached gentility.

Massingham’s combativeness is quite appealing. I think he would fain have jumped back in time way past the Enlightenment to fetch up somewhere in the late medieval period. He reserves his most eloquent writing for our piece of country, and most particularly Stonor Park, ‘the heart of the Chilterns’, where the wild spirit of the place has not yet been ousted, the views not hopelessly corrupted with eyesores. I have no proof that he ever visited our woods, but I hope he would have found the genius loci satisfactory there, too. I am certain he would have disapproved of the practice of ‘splitting’ to sell off ancient woodlands, thereby dividing the integrity of manors that had been in existence for nearly a thousand years. There is no defence, except to say that I could never have afforded to buy a whole stretch. There are plenty of very wealthy people in the hills who don’t appreciate the unique treasures they have on their land, and my small patch is much loved.

Just over a century before Cecil Roberts was pottering around his garden in Lower Assendon, John Stuart Mill was exploring our Chiltern countryside with a far more scientific enthusiasm. The philosopher and political theorist was equally a dedicated and scholarly botanist. Very few people can instantly recognise rare plants like wintergreens (Pyrola), but J.S. Mill was one of them. From his early days he was a close friend of George Bentham (nephew of Jeremy), who would become one of the greatest botanists of the Victorian age. Mill made an expedition in France in search of poorly known flora. His house in Kensington Square in London was virtually a herbarium. Some people who are not naturalists find it odd that famous thinkers, poets or mathematicians might derive as much pleasure from the minutiae of natural history as from the fields of endeavour that made them famous. Vladimir Nabokov was as serious about blue butterflies as he was about writing novels, but certain critics relay this fact as a kind of eccentric footnote to the life of the artist. Doubtless they perceive that less time frittered away with the butterflies might have resulted in one or two more novels. Can they not see that the taxonomic eye applied to recognising the subtlest nuances of difference in butterflies is the same eye that spots the deceptions and evasions in human motivation? The capacity to make accurate observations is a special genius, and it is not limited to focusing on one particular bipedal subject species.

In 1828 J.S. Mill undertook his own bipedal tour that passed through our part of Oxfordshire.6 (#litres_trial_promo) Open fields yielded abundant white-flowered wild candytuft, ‘one of the commonest of all weeds’ (Iberis amara), which is now a rare plant – I eventually ran it down myself on clear ground on Swyncombe Down, nine miles from our wood. His record of thorow wax (Bupleurumrotundifolium) might be one of the last for the county: this species is close to extinction in Great Britain, and Mill noted its rarity even then. On 5 July he approached Henley from Nettlebed: our patch. You may imagine the pleasure his subsequent writing gave me.

The woods are the great beauty of this country. They are real woods, not copse, that is, they are not cut down for fire-wood, but allowed to grow into timber, though not to any great age, nor are there, as far as we could perceive, many very large or fine trees among them … We stopped at the White Hart, Nettlebed for the night, and in the evening walked down the hill by the Oxford Road towards Henley. It passes through a fine forest-like beech wood, and on the whole the ascent to Nettlebed from Henley is far more beautiful than any thing else which we have seen in its vicinity.

I cannot prove that John Stuart Mill walked exactly along the footpath past our wood, although it is hard to see how a woodland ascent towards Nettlebed from Henley could have taken any other route. His praise for its beauty is not the least of it. The woods he described are very like those that still flourish today in this corner of the Chiltern Hills; the same stately ‘forest’ of mature timber trees, but yet lacking any truly ancient giants such as survive in old parkland or as parish boundary markers. My wife and I discovered a massive ancient beech pollard along a path in Nettlebed that must have been four hundred years old at least, all gnarled and knobbly and hollowed out. There are a few in the area. But no, Lambridge Wood was a working wood two hundred years ago, a beechen grove permitted to grow on to timber, but not to senility. We shall see, however, that nothing is forever, and our wood would have had different employment in earlier and later times.

Nor can I prove that John Stuart Mill walked through the wood in the company of George Grote, but I like to think that circumstances favoured it. They were friends already in the early 1820s. Mill was both an admirer and a reviewer of Grote’s writing, and particularly his monumental history of Greece (1846–56) in twelve volumes:7 (#litres_trial_promo) a work not perhaps as beloved as Gibbon on Rome, but with a similarly vast reach and ambition. The two prolific writers shared what might broadly be called liberal and reformist views, and were Utilitarians. The seat of the banking Grote family was Badgemore House, which has been mentioned as the estate adjoining Greys Court directly to the east. Part of the Henley end of Lambridge Wood was within that estate; tracks ran onwards into our part of the greater wood. George’s father was fond of country pursuits, and went hacking on horseback through our woods and onwards to Bix. Young George (then still a banker) and his wife would make the forty-mile journey from London to spend ten days with his parents, and on one occasion Mrs Grote drove all the way in her own one-horse vehicle while her husband rode for four hours separately on horseback.8 (#litres_trial_promo) Although George Grote was much attached to Badgemore, in the days before the railway it was hardly a practical commute. By 1831 it was clear that the country house should be given up, and George left for the metropolis to devote more time to reformist politics. We shall see that all the manor houses surrounding our wood had political connections with the capital at one time or another.

As for contemporary writers, Richard Mabey’s memoir of Chiltern countryside9 (#litres_trial_promo) is centred on a region not very far from Lambridge Wood, while Ian McEwan described a long walk through our chalk country in his 2007 novel On Chesil Beach. This area of southern England proves to be almost as crawling with writers as with other invertebrates.

Hard grounds

The ground in this part of the wood is crunchy under my boots. Beneath a few of last year’s fallen leaves and under the questing loops of bramble shoots there appears to be nothing but rock. I am attempting to dig a hole to explore the surface geology, but my spade refuses to make any progress. Its blade twists and complains against a barrier of stones. I will have to employ my geological hammer to solve the problem.

The pick side of the hammer starts levering up lumpy flints, some bigger than my fist. They leave the damp ground reluctantly, with a sucking noise. Where I hammer downwards into the growing hole, sparks fly where steel meets flint. Briefly, there is a smell of cordite; in the days of flintlock pistols that smell would have been a familiar one. Flints were used to strike the spark that ignited gunpowder before a shot could be made. Our flints are embedded in reddish ochre clay that tries to hold on to them, clay that can easily be rolled into a coherent ball between the palms of my hands, and sticks to the fingers. The exterior of most of the flints is white when wiped clear of its clay coat, but where the hammer has shattered one of the larger flints its interior is strikingly black, and mottled in patches. It is a hard rock, but a brittle one shot through with flaws. Much of the wood is effectively floored with flint. Of the chalk of the Chilterns there is no sign.

Just down the hill beyond the Fair Mile I know that chalk underlies everything. When the dual-carriageway road was repaired great masses of the white rock were dumped on the side, and I picked out a typical, conical fossil sponge called Ventriculites from the rock pile. Even within Lambridge Wood, further downslope towards Henley, a mysterious excavation known as the Fairies’ Hole (marked on even the oldest maps) is undoubtedly dug within the white limestone. The rock that makes the whole range of hills, ‘the rock that bore them up all on its back’, as H.J. Massingham said, is an understory of chalk. Within the chalk, hard flints form discrete layers, but they never dominate completely. This flint was ultimately derived from fossil sponges within the chalk that had internal skeletons made of silica struts. The silica was first dissolved, and then re-deposited in flinty layers as the original chalk ooze gradually hardened and transformed into the rock we see today. Whatever underlies Grim’s Dyke Wood on the higher ground evidently also lies on top of the chalk formation, but is largely made of flints derived from it, all stuck in a matrix of sticky clay. This deposit is called, unsurprisingly, clay-with-flints, and in the wood the flints are dominant.

Clay-with-flints caps the chalk in many parts of the Chiltern Hills.10 (#litres_trial_promo) It is the product of many millennia of slow solution and weathering-away of the chalk; it is what is left behind when everything else is removed. Chalk is weakly soluble in rainwater, which is why water derived from an aquifer in the Chilterns leaves a limescale deposit behind in a kettle. After a very long time, as the chalk naturally disappears the originally scattered flints become concentrated. Flint is insoluble; in fact, this form of silica is well-nigh indestructible. It can be tossed into rivers or buried in gardens for centuries, and emerges unscathed. It will outlast the Chilterns.

To estimate the thickness of the clay-with-flint capping I walk slowly up from the end of the Fair Mile to Lambridge Wood along Pickpurse Lane (see comments on highwaymen (#litres_trial_promo)), digging with my hammer into the bank until the telltale milkiness goes out of the soil. There are other signs to look for. Old man’s beard (Clematis vitalba), the nearest thing in the British flora to a liana, only grows on chalk – it will not tolerate clay-with-flints. Wild marjoram is no more forgiving. Plant roots sense chemistry with the exquisite palate of a connoisseur. Both the indicator plants grow in abundance near the bottom of the lane and fade away upward. By the time all evidence of chalk has disappeared I conclude that very roughly twenty feet of clay-with-flints must lie above. That is sufficient to make the thin soil on the high ground neutral or acidic compared with the alkaline soils on the slope and in the valley bottom. This saddens me, for many of the more glamorous plants love chalk: the whitebeam tree with big simple leaves with shining undersides; cheerful yellow St John’s wort; and many an orchid. I shall just have to live without them – I cannot argue with geology. Now I also know why our footpaths can become like quagmires after too much rain. That layer of impermeable clay does not drain well; it likes to make ponds. Some corner of our wood will always be damp.

Back to Grim’s Dyke Wood. I decide not to try to excavate much more of the recalcitrant stony ground. Instead I shall use the holes I have made to put down beetle traps, burying a few cups half-filled with lethal Dettol to ensnare night crawlers. As I tidy up, a different stone surprises me. Lying on top of the ground by a beech trunk is a pebble the size and shape of a goose egg. It is purple, and it is certainly no flint. Under my hand lens I recognise it immediately as hard sandstone. I soon see more examples of a similar cast, liver-coloured, always rounded off to make satisfactory hand specimens, by which I mean something that sits easily in the palm. They are all strangers. There is no rock formation I can think of in the Chiltern Hills, or in the Vale of Aylesbury beyond, or even further afield beyond Oxford, that might produce such pebbles. They have all their corners chipped off until they are satisfyingly elliptical in outline, and smoothly rounded at the corners. This is a form sculpted by long sojourn in a lively river; erosion has knocked them into shape little by little, polishing repeatedly over a very long time. How could they have got here, into the middle of our beech wood? There are other strangers too. A white pebble that might be a pigeon’s egg, judging from its shape and size; it’s another form of silica – resembling flint, but with a dense, swirling milky whiteness. Vein quartz, I will wager. It might have originated from a vein within granite or snaking along a fault fracturing other rocks. There is no source for such vein quartz anywhere around here. Strewn on top of the clay-with-flints are a bunch of lithological vagabonds from afar.

I decide to investigate further. At the Natural History Museum a skilful colleague cuts sections through my errant pebbles. Microscopic examination should show what they are made of, and reveal the secrets of their derivation. The samples are sliced using a diamond saw; then a thin sliver is mounted on a glass slide and reduced in thickness so much that light can penetrate the minerals that make up the rock; they can now be examined under a petrological microscope. I learned my microscopy skills as an undergraduate in a dusty laboratory in Cambridge, and distant memories stir as I stare down the eyepiece.

The vein quartz pebble proves to be typical. Under the microscope it shows as an irregular patchwork of grey or slightly yellowish crystals, with trails of tiny bubbles. It could have originated from several geological sites. However, one sample has several good pieces of similar-looking rounded vein quartz embedded within a chunk of the sandstone, like plums in a pudding. Maybe the quartz pebbles were derived from the same sandstone formation, only a part of it that was much coarser – a conglomerate, in geological terms. The pebbles must have been incorporated into the sandstone from some still older source. The sandstone itself is curious and distinctive. The individual sand grains are clear enough as masses of rounded outlines under the microscope, and they are of similar size to those that might be found on a beach today. But they are glued together by dark-red cement, without doubt full of iron. This is the mineral that gives the pebbles their rich red colour. The sandstone is recognisable, and it can be run down to its source. The pebbles must be Triassic in age (about 235 million years old), and they come from the English Midlands.11 (#litres_trial_promo) The old name for them was from the German – Bunter sandstone12 (#litres_trial_promo) – and they date back to a time when Britain was hot and arid and the geography of Europe had an utterly different cast. As for the indestructible milky quartz pebbles, some of them originated from the erosion of still older rocks long before they in their turn became incorporated into the Bunter sandstone; they might be as old as a billion years. Enmeshed under our own beech roots we have pebbles that account for a quarter of the history of the earth; and they arrived in the Chilterns by water, without question.






The vigorous river that brought down the pebbles from eighty miles to the north-west was an ancestor of the same River Thames that now flows sedately two miles to the east of the wood.13 (#litres_trial_promo) During the Pleistocene Ice Age (2,588,000 to 11,700 years ago) thick continental glaciers to the north waxed and waned by turn, diverting all Europe’s great rivers at some times, providing the source for vast spreads of gravel at others. The ancient Thames left behind a record of this complex history in its former river terraces, the remains of which are scattered around the Chilterns and the London Basin. The oldest of these terraces is close to our wood, at Nettlebed. The exotic pebbles that I found in the wood are well known from a younger terrace, a set of strata called the Stoke Row Gravels.

The village that gives that formation its name is about four miles west of the wood, high on the Chiltern plateau. It is home to a most implausible structure, a little piece of India by a village green such as Cecil Roberts would have described as being quintessentially English. The Maharajah’s Well was dug by hand 368 feet down into the chalk, passing on the way down through the overlying gravels relevant to our wood, and all at the personal expense of the Maharajah of Benares, who also supplied the exotic, elegant and ornate canopy. His gift was reciprocation for a well dug in India at Azimghur by Edward Reade (‘squire’ of Stoke Row) in 1831. The Maharajah remembered that Reade had told him how his little home village on the top of the Chiltern Hills was most precariously supplied with water. His remarkable gift of the Maharajah’s Well was officially opened in 1864, and did its job efficiently for seven decades.

Professor Phil Gibbard tells me that the Midland ‘connection’ was open for well over a million years, until about 450,000 years ago. Although the huge Pleistocene ice sheets never reached as far south as the wood, their influence could not have been more profound. An icy climate sculpted the Chiltern landscape. It scrubbed the landscape to a tabula rasa on which all its subsequent history was inscribed; this marks the baseline of my natural history. I have to imagine a landscape stripped of trees. The slopes of the hills are bare, with only the hardiest herbs able to cope with the frigidity to the south of the permanent ice. Now indeed Cecil Roberts’s description of the valley up to Stonor as a ‘ravine’ may be nearer the mark, for the Chiltern country is riven with steep-sided valleys. Cold summer streams that flow with rejuvenated force following the annual melt carve vigorously down into the soft chalk, which is still too deeply frozen to allow the tumbling waters simply to be absorbed. The streambed is choked up with flint pebbles. In Arctic latitudes I have watched just the same fitful progress of jostling stones during the brief summer – their percussion kept me awake. The legacy of the frozen era still marks the ground: not only the implausible sheerness of some Chiltern hillsides, but also valley bottoms floored even now by ancient stream gravels.

Old names were bestowed by the Ice Age, like Rocky Lane, which runs up a valley on the south-western side of the Greys estate. Then, somewhat over eleven thousand years ago, the climate warmed for good, and now I must populate the hills with trees. Pioneers at first, small willows, hardy conifers; then birch, pine and aspen; and next, and not necessarily in this order, the broadleaved trees that came to make the original wildwood: oak, ash, lime, elm, hazel and beech. Oliver Rackham14 (#litres_trial_promo) tells us that the lime species he calls pry (Tilia cordata) – the small-leaved lime – was dominant in many of those early woodlands. It still lurks, mostly unremarked, in a few places in the Chiltern Hills, but not in our wood. About six thousand years ago ‘Stone Age’ humans were already beginning to fell the virginal forests, where previously arboreal old age and accident had been the only foresters. The streams that had once carved the ‘ravines’ were now absorbed into the defrosted chalk, leaving a legacy of steep dry valleys, like the one that runs from the Fair Mile to Stonor Park; though it is not quite dry, for after unusually wet winters the water table rises until streams such as the Assendon Brook reappear, bounding alongside the tiny roads and causing cyclists to swerve and walkers to chide their wet Labradors.

I hold a couple of the liver-coloured sandstone pebbles and a quartz keepsake up to the May sunshine. So much can be read from these fragments. I think of the lines from As You Like It:

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

These remarkable, sermonising samples of rocks that might have passed unnoticed are next to be added to the collection.

Maiden ladies and geraniums

In 1787 Mary, Dowager Lady Stapleton, moved into Greys Court as her dower house, and women dominated that establishment for the next eighty years. After she died at the age of ninety-one in 1835, Mary’s daughters Maria and Catherine stayed on in the big house that owned Lambridge Wood until the younger sister Catherine’s death twenty-eight years later; both sisters also lived to a great age. The intellectual ferment in London that preoccupied their neighbour, George Grote – and the circle that included John Stuart Mill – passed them by. Rather, the Church engaged them fully, and led them to charities directed at the moral and religious education of the less fortunate in the parish of Rotherfield Greys. The rents from tenancies guaranteed their gentility, if not their spinsterhood. It must have been a quiet time at the ancient house.

Mary’s son James was at Greys Court in the earlier days, and his friend from Christ Church, Oxford, Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, stayed with him often, and wrote frank letters to his mother at Hoddam Castle peppered with observations that exactly match his surname.15 (#litres_trial_promo) On 12 January 1801 he was describing his Christmas at Greys, ‘which began, woe’s me! like most other gambols, with laughter, and ended in tears’. He described the entertainments the local town had to offer thus:

Miss Stapleton, her brother, and myself, repaired in high feather to a ball at Henley, the night after Christmas, and were much amused in many ways. The company consisted of the town gentry, and the progeny of farmers in the neighbourhood; the clowns with lank, rat-tail hair, and white gloves drawn tight on hands which they knew not how to dispose of; the clownesses with long stiff feathers stuck round their heads like those of a shuttle cock, and wealth of paste beads and pinchbeck chains. They came all stealing into the room as if they were doing some villainy, and joyful was the meeting of the benches and their bums. But the dancing did them most ease; the nymphs imitating the kicking of their cows, the swains the prancing of their cart horses. But joy of joys! Tea was brought at twelve, and off came all the silken mittens and pure white gloves in an instant, exposing lovely raw beef arms and mutton fists more inured to twirl mopsticks and grasp pitchforks than to flutter fans or flourish bamboos.

There is a precision of observation here that almost mitigates the snobbery. Walter Scott wrote of Sharpe: ‘he has great wit, and a great turn for antiquarian lore’. Nor did the poor Misses Stapleton escape his gimlet eye. A year later he wrote:

I made out my visit to [James] Stapleton, and yawned with him for a week. They are such good dull people at Greys Court! The sober primitive women do nothing the whole day but fiddle-faddle with their greenhouse, like so many Eves, and truly they are in little danger of a tempter, for their faces would frighten the devil, not to mention men.

The only portrait I know depicting the sisters (and brother), by Thomas Beach in 1789, suggests this judgement might be unfair. The large painting hangs on the staircase in the grand Holburne Museum in Bath. The two girls are dressed rather fetchingly as shepherdesses. Their features are pleasantly strong, although there is a certain wistfulness in their expressions. Perhaps they had already foreseen their long and genteel confinement to Greys Court. We get a brief sketch of their later lives from the recollections of an old-timer published in the Henley Standard on 29 July 1922. When he was young a familiar sight was ‘the old Post Chaise, with the red jacketed and booted postilion, which brought the old Misses Stapleton of Greys Court almost daily into Henley’. They evidently kept up appearances.

The preoccupation of the Stapleton sisters with greenhouse horticulture was, I dare say correctly, observed by Mr Sharpe. Miss Stapleton won the first prize at the Henley Horticultural Show in 1837 for ‘a boquet of greenhouse flowers’.16 (#litres_trial_promo) There are still wooden-framed greenhouses dating back to Stapleton times within the brick-and-flint-walled vegetable garden at Greys Court. Catherine Stapleton was particularly expert on pelargoniums. Her knowledge was recognised by the honour of having a cultivar named after her in 1826: ‘Miss Stapleton’. It is still available as a variety from specialist nurseries. It has charming rich red flowers, paler at the base and decked with a single dark spot on each petal.17 (#litres_trial_promo) I have a pot of it on my window ledge. With her botanical predilections I am certain that Catherine walked in her own woodland. There she would certainly have found the only member of her favourite geranium family that grows in Lambridge Wood (Grim’s Dyke Wood included) – the common wayside weed Geranium robertianum, ‘herb Robert’. She, like me, must have bent down to examine its small, richly red flowers, and must have smelled its curious pungency, and felt the glandular stickiness of its divided leaves, so often tinted blood-red, and noted its odd, stilt-like roots. She too would have known that this herb was named for Nicolas Robert, a pioneer of accurate botanical illustration in seventeenth-century France. I can imagine sharing with her a moment’s communion over a mutual enthusiasm before the proprieties of the time sent her scurrying back to the old house.

Fiddleheads

Ferns have subtle beginnings. As the bluebell leaves fade to little more than slime, ferns push out their new fronds. In the larger clearing, fresh shoots of brambles seem to unfold their leaves even as I watch. Every early shoot – Dylan Thomas’s ‘green fuse’ if ever I have seen one – is almost soft, and downy, and I have nibbled one and found it pleasant and nutty. Today, the backwardly curved spines lining the veins on the underside of the newly unfurled leaves are already beginning to harden – soon they will be capable of delivering a scratch. The bramble patch is impenetrable and intimidating, and the new growth will serve only to thicken its dense conspiracy. Amidst the scrubbiest part of it are dry, brown, fallen fronds of last year’s male ferns (Dryopteris filix-mas). From their centre new growth rises assertively. Rebirth started obscurely a month ago as a cluster of dark knobs. Each one soon rears up of its own accord into a fiddlehead, a kind of self-unwinding spiral that uncurls upwards into the spring sunlight. It is rather like that irritating party toy with which children love to blow raspberries at their friends. At the fiddlehead stage it is said to be edible, and I can see a bruised crown where deer have treated the new growth as a seasonal snack. Even now some of the fronds are opening out, like some unfathomable piece of origami, unsheathing the elegant, pinnate blade that will see the year out. The clustered male fern fronds triumph over the brambles. Once the fronds are fully dark green they will be primed with the poisons that have helped them survive since before the dinosaurs; and then their spore packages will ripen in tiny curved organs beneath each leaflet.






Under drier beech another kind of fern is less difficult to reach, and is more delicate: a buckler fern (Dryopteris dilatata), with a triangular frond, finely divided, and broadest at the base. It seems too fragile for such a challenging place where little else grows, and even its fiddlehead is more tentative. The shaft that bears the growing frond is delicately clothed in brown, chaff-like flakes. And now on the ground all around this fern so much more brown chaff: little purplish-tan clumps of defunct stamens no bigger than a fingernail have dropped down from the canopy. This is all that remains of the inconspicuous beech flowers. They have already done their job far above me, though the beech leaves are still so new. The greatest trees have the least spectacular flowers.

It may seem unlikely that beech leaves could contribute to a delicious alcoholic drink, but I have made a liqueur from them for several years, and most of my guests are surprised it is so easy on the tongue. Beech-leaf noyeau can be made in early May when the leaves are freshly unfurled. They are still pale green and soft to the touch – they can be rolled up like cigarette papers. Any tougher and they are bitter. I try to exclude as many of the little brown bracts that originally enclosed the leaf as I can. It takes an unexpectedly long time to pick enough fresh leaves to lightly fill a plastic bag. Once back in the kitchen I stuff a preserving jar quite tightly with the leaves, until it is rather more than half full. Then they are covered with gin (or vodka) until the jar is about three-quarters full. I do not use a high-class brand suffused with many exotic botanicals, but the cheaper stuff from that supermarket shelf marked ‘Youths and Alcoholics Only’. I leave the sealed jar for a month to steep. Then the leaves are removed, allowing all the liquor to drain off. If there are any funny bits floating about, now is the time to remove them. For a whole bottle of gin (700 ml) the next ingredients are 200 grams of sugar, around 200 ml of brandy, and 250 ml of water. After boiling the water to dissolve the sugar the resulting syrup is allowed to cool completely. I then add the syrup and the brandy to the beech-leaf elixir and put the mixture back in the preserving jar, preferably with half a vanilla pod. By Christmastide it should be a lovely golden colour. Only a very cynical person would say that it tastes of brandy and vanilla.

Bats!

Claire Andrews has installed her bat monitors. She strapped the recording devices on to our trees about ten feet off the ground, one on the oak by the clearing, the other on a big beech in a sheltered part of the Dingley Dell. They are painted in camouflage colours, and are inconspicuous once in place. They are like discreet garters hitched up on the legs of the trees. Over the next week or so they will record the ultrasonic echolocation noises used by bats to detect their prey, along with their calls one to another.

When I was young I could hear the ‘squeaks’ of bats, but now I am sadly deaf to such crepuscular cries; yet I have seen dancing, shadowy shapes of bats hunting over our clearing outlined momentarily against a darkening sky, black against indigo. How appropriate is the German word for bat – Fledermaus, ‘flitter mouse’ – which exactly captures these stuttering dashes across the heavens.

It is impossible exactly to identify a species of bat in flight. Our recording machines are attuned to pick up the high-frequency cries of these most elusive mammals. Different species ‘squeak’ at different frequencies and with different cadences, as they locate and home in on their prey, especially moths. They use echoes to build up a map of their surroundings, rather as the sonar system installed in ocean-going vessels is used to visualise the sea floor. Bats are exquisitely attuned to avoid obstacles in their way, so negotiating a contorted flightpath under our trees poses no problem. Some of their prey species (among them noctuid moths, which are common in the wood) have evolved organs adapted to ‘hearing’ their approaching nemesis, and will take evasive action if they detect pursuit, such as dropping rapidly downwards from their flight trajectory. Evolution often works as a kind of arms race, with ever more sophisticated methods of attack provoking ever more subtle lines of defence. We need not wonder at the extraordinary auditory organs of the long-eared bats, bizarre though they might appear. These bats ‘whisper’ with low amplitude and short duration to fool their prey, and they need exceptional hearing from massive ears to detect the tiniest sounds made by insects that they may pick up directly from leaves. By day, all bats hang themselves up like folded umbrellas in secluded roosts. Claire has already spotted several holes in beech trees, and, elsewhere, loose pieces of bark that would afford suitable hideaways. There is nothing to do now except leave the contraptions to do their work.

More than a week later, we feed the digital chips from the recording devices into Claire’s computer. Time is ticked off along a chart that reels out on screen the batty history of the glades as night falls. Here is a series of calls from the main clearing at 8.26 p.m. precisely, registering at 45 kilohertz, following sunset seventeen minutes earlier: they appear on the chart as a succession of reverse ‘J’ shapes, rather like the strokes of an italic pen. ‘The one you’d expect,’ says Claire. ‘Common pipistrelle (Pipistrellus pipistrellus).’ At 8.39 another batch of short calls appears showing a rather similar shape, but at a different pitch of 55 kilohertz. ‘That’s the soprano pipistrelle (Pipistrellus pygmaeus). It “sings” at a higher frequency.’ Claire tells me that the soprano was only named as a species separate from the common pipistrelle in 1999, which seems extraordinary. How could a British mammal elude recognition for so long? We have known all the others for two centuries. Evidently, the two species are extremely similar small brown bats, although they are now known to have different breeding and feeding strategies. As with a lie detector, their voices gave them away. By artificially tuning down the frequencies on the computer we can ‘hear’ the bat calls for ourselves, and appreciate their different pitches.

At 9.39 a different pattern appears on the screen; it belongs to one of the Myotis bats, which are not possible to discriminate on sound alone. Claire believes that our visitor is either the whiskered bat or Brandt’s bat, but trapping would be required to say which species. No matter, we will not be following that course. At 10.02 the sopranos return to sing different arias, which show up as sine waves on the screen. These are social calls, aural visiting cards to signal to the group; when rendered into sound I hear repeated chirrups. At 10.12 the distinctive pattern of a noctule bat (Nyctalis noctula) appears on the screen; this is one of the largest bats to live in Britain.

Meanwhile in the woodland glade, deep under the beech trees, both types of pipistrelle are dominant, but Myotis bats are also flitting through. A distinctive low-amplitude signal identifies the brown long-eared bat (Plecotus auritus), and proves that these most delicately adapted hunters are passing under the canopy at 11.16. Claire had expected the long-eared species to appear in this habitat; despite its exotic appearance, it is not rare. This extravagantly outfitted bat may well roost in Lambridge Wood Barn at the edge of Grim’s Dyke Wood. The same site would suit a large, and much more uncommon, bat whose signal was identified at 8.40 the following evening: the serotine bat (Eptesicus serotinus), a species quite capable of demolishing the big nocturnal beetles that abound under the beeches.

We add them all up. Six different bat species are exploiting the insect life in Grim’s Dyke Wood, which must surely be a sign of a generally healthy environment. There may even be a seventh. Claire found one brief signal that might – possibly – have emanated from a snub-nosed, moth-hunting barbastelle (Barbastella barbastella), a protected species, and one of Britain’s rarest bats. I earnestly wish it to be in our wood, but I know well the emotion naturalists experience as ‘the pull of rarity’. It is always so tempting to recognise a more uncommon option. I must rein in my enthusiasm. Until we put up another monitor and get definite evidence from longer calls, the barbastelle bat is ‘unproven’.




3

June (#u23fb6c70-d4e8-5cb8-b83c-f2a3a378b8ce)


Mothing

It is a warm evening when Andrew and Clare Padmore arrive at the wood with their moth traps. Their small generator powers a bright light set in the middle of a stage. Beneath this platform the moths that are attracted to the light can tumble down into a container full of papier-mâché eggboxes. The light goes on at dusk and we sit under the beech trees on the edge of the large clearing waiting for darkness. Somewhere further away in the wood there is a noise made by some moderately large animal passing through; it is probably a badger somewhere near Grim’s Dyke. The night embraces us. The artificially illuminated beech trunks fade away a little spookily in the distance into far blackness.

The first moth – a beautiful Green Carpet Moth (Colostygia pectinataria) – comes out of the dark and desperately flutters around. It flops on to the ground sheet, and then off and around again until trapped in a jar where we can admire its triangular form and chequered green markings. As if from nowhere a big, hairy moth arrives. It has pale, furry legs which point forward as it rests, and exquisite, comb-like, brown antennae – Andrew identifies a Pale Tussock Moth (Calliteara pudibunda). It sits very still as if bemused, hind wings tucked under the forewings, which are marked with an impossibly complex, undulating greyish mottling. This particular species does not feed as an adult; its job is simply reproduction. Then comes a smaller, darker species, the Nut Tree Tussock (Colocasia coryli). ‘They are all,’ says Andrew, ‘in the peak of condition, just emerged from the pupa.’

Feathered antennae distinguish most moths from butterflies, which have comparatively slender ones carrying knobs at the tips, and it is clear that our moths’ antennae are working away even now, twitching and sweeping. They are hypersensitive chemical sampling kits smelling out messages borne on the night air: odours from freshly unfurled leaves as food for their caterpillars, or the attractive pheromones that identify their mates. Theirs is an olfactory world; light is almost superfluous. I have a vision of the night air as a miasma, dense with molecular messages that only moths can read. They do however use the moon for navigation – our lights serve to confuse their direction-finding, which is why the insects arrive in our collecting boxes.

They are not alone: two fat, succulent cockchafer beetles – May bugs (Melontha melontha) – prove that other creatures are also abroad. The big brown beetles scrabble at the light, looking oddly like cockroaches with ill-fitting wings. There is something repellent about their insistence. Although their larvae cause damage to plant roots the leaf-eating adults are harmless enough.

Now my eyes are fully accustomed to the darkness. The sky is visible in places between the interwoven crowns of the trees. It is not as profoundly dark as the distant recesses of the wood; it is rather an ineffably deep blue dotted with stars. As I look upwards the lamplight catches on horizontally disposed beech branches, making drapes of them, a series of stacked canopies fading upwards. Our sampling site has become a kind of theatre, with beech trunks making the proscenium columns, framed by swags of real leaves. Two small bats now flutter into the auditorium, briefly picked out by the illumination: in and out, and then again. Will they scoff the moths we have worked so hard to attract? When a Brimstone Moth (Opisthograptis luteolata) arrives even I, a moth beginner, can identify it, since apart from a few reddish splashes on the front of the wings it is all brilliant sulphur yellow. In contrast, the Waved Umber Moth (Menophra abruptaria), the size of a small leaf, is so perfectly disguised it looks like a fragment of animated tree bark; at rest during the day it is invisible. New arrivals continue. The light attracts a kind of living fuzz of many other tiny insects I cannot identify. They all have secret livings to be made in the wood, if only I could know what they were. Somewhere in the distance a screech owl cries, but not so fiercely, as if in sympathy.

Andrew Padmore will return to the wood many times. More and more moth species will be attracted to his lure, which is later replaced by a solar-charged model hidden deep in the trees. No harm is done to the gentle moths: a photograph is taken and they are released to go about their business. As I write the list of species recovered has now climbed beyond 150. Different moths are on the wing at different seasons, finishing perhaps with the November Moth. There is a curious poetry about moth names, which is an esoteric language of analogy, allusion and colour. The wood has yielded more than half a dozen different species of carpet moths. There are several pugs and rustics, thorns and swifts, footmen and oak beauties. Who can resist the Chinese Character, the Coxcomb Prominent, or the Feathered Gothic? Or Bloomer’s Rivulet, the Rustic Shoulder Knot, Blood Vein and Mocha? They are all in the wood. Sometimes the common name is a simple description: the Blood Vein does indeed have a single, bloodily tinted vein describing a clear line like a gash across the middle of the wings. The Chinese Character does carry a distinctive pictogram; but it more closely resembles a bird-dropping when at rest. The Flounced Rustic is a furry, wonderfully complex, mottled and blotched mass of tans and greys; but I fail to see the flouncing. The Mocha is a nationally scarce buff-and-brown moth that maybe suggested coffee to some entomologist in the early days of the science. All the names have charm. Nobody could argue about the origin of Peach Blossom (Thyatira batis); it is marked as if some evolutionary leprechaun had implanted a few whole, pink flower heads on the darker forewings – just for fun.

We caught some moth species only once; they probably included wanderers from grasslands and gardens, feeding on plants that are not found in the wood. I would have loved to find more hawk moths, but we don’t have poplars or convolvulus to nourish their caterpillars. The moths most commonly trapped are naturally those whose food plants are present in Lambridge Wood. They are an intrinsic part of the ecology. The incomparable Peach Blossom is a bramble feeder, our commonest shrub. The most abundant species of all was trapped 111 times: the Clouded Magpie (Abraxas sylvata), a large and very pretty white moth blotched with patches of orange-brown, grey and black. Its food plant is wych elm, and Grim’s Dyke Wood has plenty of wych elms. Andrew had never realised that it could be so numerous – but then, elms are not so widespread these days. The Gold Swift (Phymatopus hecta) is one of the few insects that can feed on bracken, that potpourri of pernicious poisons, and does not have far to fly to find its favoured larval foodstuff. The little brown Snout Moth (Hypena proboscidalis), all pointy at the front and the shape of a tiny delta-wing aeroplane, needs nothing more than nettles. Despite its name, the Willow Beauty (Peribatodes rhomboidaria) can feed on tough ivy. This moth is a wonderful confection of brown and black speckles on a buff background – the very embodiment of the word ‘cryptic’. It is so cryptically coloured the wonder is that the lepidopterists ever discovered it at all. The Satin Beauty (Deileptenia ribeata) is almost as well-disguised, and can feed on uncompromising yew needles. Then I must catalogue forty Lobster Moths (Stauropus fagi), dullish-coloured and almost as big as your thumb, and very plump and hirsute; as their Latin name implies they favour Fagus, and there are beech trees as far as the eye can see.

The Lobster Moth reminds me of an interesting puzzle. In spite of the wealth of its lepidopteran life I have noticed very few caterpillars since I have owned the wood. I have to conclude that this ‘eating machine’ stage of the moth’s life takes special trouble not to be observed: a green body on green foliage, stick-like mimicry, rolling a leaf into a private self-service restaurant – these are some of the tricks of the larval trade that different species employ to avoid a questing beak. Only very poisonous species like to announce themselves in yellow and black stripes. On a hazel stick I did find the caterpillar of a member of the geometer family (it might even have been that of the Brimstone Moth), a typical ‘inchworm’ with legs only fore and aft along the body, so it progresses by looping up its midriff as it brings its hind legs forward. Measured steps are not an inaccurate description (hence the geometry). When it stops under the threat of my close eye it raises one end into the air and becomes a twig. Even more, it shows countershading. That is, its upper part is darker than its underside. Normally, things lit from above are relatively illumined on that side, which makes them more conspicuous. By introducing compensating darker tones on the dorsal part of the body such contrasts are flattened out: the object (well, inchworm) melts into the background. As they say on soap powder advertisements: it really works!

As for the Lobster Moth, high in our beech canopy, it is a deceiver to dumbfound John le Carré. When the larva first hatches from the egg it is an ant imitator, with spindly legs that wave around a lot, and it thrashes about like an injured ant if it is disturbed. The young caterpillars are reported to defend their egg territory, and will drive off any rival caterpillar that comes too close. As they moult and grow they become both voracious leaf consumers and very odd looking – one of nature’s gargoyles. The head is larger and the legs behind it (the thoracic legs of the adult) become unnaturally attenuated even as the four pairs of legs further behind become stumpy and grasping. The back gets covered in humps, and the tail end can turn back on itself like some kind of turgid bladder, all finished off with a spike. The entire caterpillars develop a shade of pinky brown, and since they can be seventy millimetres long fully grown they are quite enough to give a shock to any casual stroller who comes across one; especially when their body is raised in the threat position with the head arched back. It is said to resemble a cooked lobster; it is certainly scary.

I wonder if all of our 150 or so moths have such complex tales to tell. The beech canopy is humming with life stories, the brambles alive with deceptions and role-playing, each crack in the bark of every tree a dark dive hiding darker narratives.

Beech

By June, the beech canopy has garnered all the light, each leaf second-guessing its neighbour at grasping any space giving on to the sky. The taller trees soar upwards for more than a hundred feet. From the ground they seem all trunk, but from the sky they seem all crown. The beech (Fagus sylvatica) has always been a working tree: for furniture, fire and faggots. John Evelyn’s Sylva, the first book published by the Royal Society in 1664, and the founding text of forestry, said of beech trees: ‘they will grow to a stupendous procerity, though the soil be stony and very barren: Also upon the declivities, sides, and tops of high hills, and chalky mountains especially.’ Evelyn then quotes an old rhyme:

Beech made their chests, their beds and the joyn’d-stools,

Beech made the board, the platters, and the bowls.

Three hundred years ago, beech may not have built the houses, but it did almost everything else. The management of beech trees has been the story of our wood for centuries.

In 1748, Peter Kalm, a Finnish protégé of the great Swedish botanist Linnaeus (who named the beech tree scientifically), made an informed journey through the woodlands of England.1 (#litres_trial_promo) He observed the Chiltern lands at Little Gaddesden, a short distance from our wood over the Buckinghamshire border. Some of the trees he saw might indeed have been our own, for ‘the beeches are for many fathoms in their lower part entirely without branches, and quite smooth’. The woodsmen climbed the trees in search of squirrels (at that time red squirrels), or rooks’ nests to provide the table with squabs. They rarely used ladders; instead they strapped hideously sharp ‘crampoons’ to their feet to scale the trees, like some oversized squirrel themselves.

Kalm recorded precisely how, after felling, every part of the tree had a value; almost nothing went to waste. Farmers used to say of pigs that everything is used except the squeak; the beech woodsmen’s equivalent might be: everything has a use except the bark. They ‘sold the smooth part, or sawn it up into boards, but those of which the stem had been knotty or uneven was cut up for firewood and piled up in cords. When the beeches … were cut down and felled to the ground they were cut off close to the earth. Two or three years after that, the stump that had been left, together with all the roots proceeding from it … was dug up, cut into small pieces and arranged in four sided oblong heaps to dry … In digging up the roots they had been so careful that among those heaps there lay a great many fibres of the roots, whose length was not over 6 inches, and thickness not greater than a quill pen. These roots thus arranged were sold as fuel to those who lived some English miles around.’ Dry twigs bound into bundles of faggots were fuel for bread ovens. Some observers even regarded the beeches in the way that we now look at factory farming. The pioneering landscape architect Humphrey Repton remarked in 1803 that ‘these woods are evidently considered rather as objects of profit than of picturesque beauty’. He preferred specimen trees carrying full crowns of branches adorning a grand park, the whole designed for effect. He would not have stooped to grub up roots.

Kalm also made calculations, and his observations show a clear, scientific mind at work. ‘A beech trunk was measured which had at the large end fifty four sap rings. The diameter was just two feet. The sap rings which were found nearest the heart were narrowest and smallest, from which they grew larger the further they lay from the heart out towards the surface.’ A cross-section cut from the trunk of a tree could not have been better described. The ‘sap rings’ are the record of the new wood lain down by each year’s growth beneath the bark: fifty-four rings is fifty-four years, the age of the tree. Our own wood needs just such a chronology.

The neighbouring wood has had some recent felling, and I can record the cleanly cut log-ends on display in a stack by the entrance to Grim’s Dyke Wood. Beech chronology turns out to be not quite as simple to measure as I might have thought. The good thing about our trees is that such straight trunks provide a reliable, nearly circular section. Nearer the ground the trunks are all buttressed and irregular, and no two diameters are the same; these undulations record the profiles of the ‘props’ that hold the trunks aloft. So the upper part of the tree – waist-height and above – provides the best experiment. Since all tree trunks do taper gently, different sections of the same tree will have decreasing diameter upwards. The difficulty is that the ‘narrowest and smallest’ rings in the centre of the tree are not so easy to read. Some years added no more than a millimetre of new wood.






I have to take a felled piece of heartwood home to see if I can tease out some figures. I laboriously buff it with fine sandpaper for hours, and as the distracting irregularities are polished away, so the early growth rings become clearer as darker lines. It is like seeing a diagnostic thumbprint slowly developing from obscurity. The wood almost shines pink-brown when I finally make out twenty-seven rings in thirty-five millimetres diameter. It evidently took a long time for this particular tree to get going, after which it sped up mightily. Even in the mature part of the tree not every ring announces itself clearly. There are good years and bad: the summers of 1974 and 1975 were droughts, and the growth rings would have been minimal. Skilled dendrochronologists can ‘read’ tree rings as a diary of climatic variation extending over centuries, but my skills do not extend that far. However, in older trees most of the rings add about three to four millimetres to the radius every year, and these can be counted easily enough. I eventually reach a consensus with my own scientific conscience. Several trees come out with eighty rings, more or less, possibly as many as eighty-five. Jackie provides a second pair of unbiased and independent eyes and tots up a similar figure. These are from trunks ranging in diameter from twenty-seven to fifty centimetres; and another trunk of forty-three-centimetre diameter has just under sixty rings. I cannot prove that the former come from higher in a tree that might have had a more impressive base. What I can say, with confidence, is that a number of beeches in Lambridge Wood grew from seedlings around 1930, and are now fine, big trees.

It is easy enough to convert diameters into circumferences, and with my very own trees the latter is what I record at shoulder-height with my tape measure. I can prove that many of the standing beeches are of similar size to those sitting on the log pile. It is actually rather easy to show this without wielding the tape, by using that alternative, hippy measurement – ‘the hug’. Trees with a fifty-centimetre diameter can be comfortably hugged, with hands meeting around their girth. There are an equal number of trees that are just too big to hug, although they do decrease in diameter to become huggable towards the canopy. And then there are the real giant trees, like the King Tree and the Queen Tree, and one I call the Elephant, with circumferences up to 250 centimetres. Surely these are much older than eighty years. If I assume that they continue to grow by adding a three-to-four-millimetre ring every year, it is not unreasonable to arrive at an age of 140 to 180 years. There are perhaps a dozen of these trees scattered through our wood. Their bark eventually loses the smoothness of the younger trees to become lightly scarred, as if daubed with vertical stretch-marks. Since there are certainly no trees still more antique, I conclude that these fine examples have been responsible for seeding some of their younger companions. They have been left alone. A great felling must have occurred about eighty years ago – and selective felling probably continued for another twenty years or so until Sir Thomas Barlow’s ownership, when we know that little happened in our part of the wood. The somewhat ‘unhuggables’ may well record regrowth after another, earlier phase of beech harvesting. There is no doubt at all that the whole wood has been replaced, thinned, sawn and regenerated. Its history is written in the tree rings. This is the same wood that John Stuart Mill walked through in 1828. Only the trees have changed.

Like those of many wind-pollinated species, beech flowers are unspectacular. I already noticed brown bunches of fallen stamens from the male flowers in May, while the separate female components now sit above, waiting to mature into three-sided beechnuts, which will eventually fall to the ground in October. The most beautiful and accurate drawings I know of living twigs are by Sarah Simblet in The New Sylva,2 (#litres_trial_promo) which is a large, luxurious, even sumptuous tribute to John Evelyn’s original, and about as appropriate for taking into a real wood as The Oxford English Dictionary. Last year’s beechnuts germinate as early as April, and the seedlings can be told from all others by their pale-green seed leaves (cotyledons), which resemble the blades of two inch-wide ping-pong bats placed side by side. Before the canopy has opened out, optimistic seedlings can come up almost anywhere in the beech litter, and are not short of light. A tender shoot then appears between the two seed leaves and starts to put out regular leaves. By now in June it is already clear that most of these young plants are doomed; they lack enough light to make further progress, as the canopy sucks it all up to feed the crowns of the trees. The babies yellow and fade. Only those seedlings close to a clearing can put on the vital first inches of growth that will give them a chance to mature into a giant. That is where a dozen or so small beech trees not much taller than I am vie to be first to fill the gap in the sky. At some stage I will have to pick a winner and thin out the rest. If I fail to do so the surviving trees will become too crowded and grow all spindly.

Squirrels

I am sitting in contemplative mood on a beech log left behind by cousin John when the bombardment begins. I cannot work it out at first. Bits of hard stuff are falling from the sky, and some of them are hitting me. Then I catch a piece as it lands: it’s a fragment of beech bark, more than a quarter of an inch thick. I am being pelted with beech bark! Protecting my eyes with spread fingers I look for the source of the onslaught. Perhaps forty feet above me a horizontal beech branch leans out from the nearest trunk. I catch a glimpse of something grey and fuzzy moving about on top of the branch. Then a squirrel peeps momentarily over the edge and identifies itself; it is not worried for its safety – it is only concerned about lunch. It is obviously not eating the beech bark; it is throwing it at me instead. He is after the sugary spring sap still flowing beneath the bark. Like one of the regulars in the Maltsters Arms, he is having a liquid lunch. The bark is stripped and the layer underneath it licked clean. It is obviously damaging to the tree. Now I notice that the bole of a nearby beech – and not a small one, either – displays a raw wound. A patch of bark has been removed, and the sapwood is on display, all yellow and unnaturally bright. Several other trees around me show the same feature, always close to the roots. In my absence, the squirrels have been picnicking al fresco.

This arboreal dining habit explains a feature I have noticed on fallen beech branches. Many of them have the bark stripped from the upper side; this is less obvious than on new wounds because the colour contrast has dulled with the passage of time. Bark on the undersides of the branches is protected from squirrel activity, so seen from the ground branches high above look just fine. In fact, many are damaged on top, and perhaps this encourages them to fall before their time.

Another chip of bark whizzes past my ear. I could almost hear a snicker from far above. Re-examining the chewed boles of the beech trees I see yet more evidence of old scars. Fortunately there is enough bark left to allow the big trees to survive. Nor is all well with some of my young beeches. Many of those with trunks thicker than my arm have been mutilated in a similar way. A few trees of middling size – forty years old perhaps – have become grotesquely distorted, their crowns twisting like corkscrews, branches all whiskery and set akimbo like broken limbs. I had not known what to make of them before. Squirrel damage has stunted and deformed them. ‘Little bastards,’ I growl, but that hardly seems adequate for an animal that may be affecting beech regeneration that has hitherto endured in the Chiltern Hills for a thousand years.






There are always grey squirrels somewhere in the wood. They skitter acrobatically along branches and leap effortlessly through the canopy; it is their realm. They build untidy drays high in the trees in which they can raise two litters a year. They have abundantly fluffy tails. They are, of course, invaders from North America. They were released on a few English estates in the nineteenth century for aesthetic reasons, and then stayed on and prospered. They pushed out the red squirrels from most of England, and continue to expand their range northwards into Scotland today: they are bolder animals, faster breeders and generally more robust. They carry a lethal pox virus to which their red cousin has not yet acquired immunity. There is nothing new about worrying about the invader. A wartime Surrey Mirror exclaimed in 1942 that to eradicate this pest ‘all possible steps such as shooting and trapping must be taken. The national interest demands it.’ Never mind Hitler: the nation might be brought down by a climbing rodent! When I was a youngster there was a bounty of sixpence on every grey-squirrel tail. Neither threats nor inducements have worked: the cheeky grey squirrel dances nimbly onwards.

It has been claimed that red squirrels are better adapted to conifer woods and that greys outcompete them only elsewhere – though I know plenty of conifer plantations with greys in command. I try very hard to banish Beatrix Potter’s charming Tale of Squirrel Nutkin from my mind, since her drawings provide such effective propaganda for the red species. Some ecologists even challenge the notion of ‘native’ species at all, when so much British wildlife has come from elsewhere. They are probably right that it is foolish to think of restoring some notional Eden, a prelapsarian paradise labelled ‘Natives Only’. In this argument I am obliged to take the part of my precious beech trees. Although I can find some records of tree damage by red squirrels, it does not seem to be as extensive as that caused by the grey interloper. A proven continuity of fine beech woods in our patch points to the red squirrel as no more than an occasional nuisance. Maybe they were once popular enough as food to keep the numbers down. Most damage happens in years when lots of squirrels have come through a mild winter following a good year for beech mast: overpopulation is part of the problem. One of my woody neighbours shoots as many greys as he can; another believes nature will correct the numbers in her own good time.

I have found a bleached squirrel skull to add to the collection, manner of death uncertain. I simply want to believe that there will still be tall, healthy beech woods here in the century to come, so that some future J.S. Mill may glory in their abundance. In the end, global warming might be more important than any kind of squirrel. The New Sylva warns that if summer drought increases, beech ‘may disappear from the Chiltern Hills except on northern slopes with moist soils’. To survive at all, the woods will have to move northwards, alongside the delinquent greys. They will become partners in a human crime. I shudder at the thought.

Two ghosts and a Dutchman’s pipe

When the beech canopy captures the sun the forest floor becomes a darker place. The bluebells have faded, and only faint greasy traces reveal the wraiths of their dead leaves. The grasses that made a brief, bright sward are muted now; nodding wood melick has set its seed for the year and will soon aspire to invisibility. Taller, elegant wood millet (Milium effusum) raises its flowering spike in wispy tiers making a brief show of green flowers that dangle from the ends of spread branchlets like tiny beads. Only sedges by the wayside are more obdurate. Their tufts and clumps of coarse, dark-green leaves see out the seasons, though few passers-by would notice them if there was the bright promise of bluebells in the woods beyond. Wood sedge (Carex sylvatica) briefly dangles little rods dotted with yellow stamens in spring, and then might even be described as pretty.

Its broader-leaved companion, thin-spiked wood sedge (Carex strigosa), is a recherché plant for botanical enthusiasts, with flower spikes so discreet that I can only identify the species with a lens in one hand and a book in the other. It is something of a rarity, though it seems to grow enthusiastically enough in ruts left by tractors. Distant sedge (Carex remota), with the thinnest leaves of all our sedges, lurks inconspicuously by the damp seep, and has its greenish fruits tucked into its leaf bases, so that anyone giving it a casual glance would think it a grass. Toughness in sedges is evidently inversely proportional to their showiness. But even they cannot grow under the largest beeches. Apparently, nothing can. The deepest leaf litter is inimical to living things. It is a place fit only for ghosts.






The rarest plant in Britain is such a ghost: the ghost orchid (Epipogium aphyllum).3 (#litres_trial_promo) It disappears like a phantom and then conjures a new haunting in a new wood. It has been declared extinct, and then spookily reappeared, even after decades. It is a spectre much sought by botanists; some plant-hunters develop an obsession with its rediscovery. And it made one of its few and unexpected appearances in Lambridge Wood. Ninety years ago a young Henley woman called Eileen Holly found it in deep litter where nothing else will grow. It appeared from 1923 until 1926. A lively eyewitness account from a prolific botanical diarist, Eleanor Vachell, leaves no doubt about the drama of the discovery – even though it reports the ghost of a ghost:

28 May 1926. The telephone bell summoned Mr. [Francis] Druce to receive a message from Mr. Wilmott of the British Museum. Epipogium aphyllum had been found in Oxfordshire by a young girl and had been shown to Dr. [George Claridge] Druce and Mrs. Wedgwood. Now Mr. Wilmott had found out the name of the wood and was ready to give all information!!! Excitement knew no bounds. Mr. Druce rang up Elsie Knowling inviting her to join the search and a taxi was hurriedly summoned to take E.V. [Eleanor Vachell] and Mr. Druce to the British Museum to collect the particulars from Mr. Wilmott. The little party walked to the wood where the single specimen had been found and searched diligently that part of the wood marked in the map lent by Mr. Wilmott but without success, though they spread out widely in both directions … Completely baffled, the trio, at E.V.’s suggestion, returned to the town to search for the finder. After many enquiries had been made they were directed to a nice house, the home of Mrs. I., who was fortunately in when they called. E.V. acted spokesman. Mrs. I. was most kind and after giving them a small sketch of the flower told them the name of the street where the girl who had found it lived. Off they started once more. The girl too was at home and there in a vase was another flower of Epipogium! In vain did Mr. Druce plead with her to part with it but she was adamant! Before long however she had promised to show the place to which she had lead [sic] Dr. Druce and Mrs. Wedgwood and from which the two specimens had been gathered. Off again. This time straight to the right place, but there was nothing to be seen of Epipogium!

2 June 1926. A day to spare! Why not have one more hunt for Epipogium? Arriving at the wood, E.V. crept stealthily to the exact spot from which the specimen had been taken and kneeling down carefully, with their fingers they removed a little soil, exposing the stem of the orchid, to which were attached tiny tuberous rootlets! Undoubtedly the stem of Dr. Druce’s specimen! Making careful measurements for Mr. Druce, they replaced the earth, covered the tiny hole with twigs and leaf-mould and fled home triumphant, possessed of a secret that they were forbidden to share with anyone except Mr. Druce and Mr. Wilmott.4 (#litres_trial_promo)

It is a measure of the allure of this botanical will o’ the wisp that even a cut stem provoked such delight. The flower in person might have induced a serious attack of the ghostly vapours. It is a pretty enough plant, with a few, quite large blooms for a European orchid, each with a pleasingly pinkish spur and yellower sepals. It is fragrant, and probably insect-pollinated. But the plant has no leaves. It has no green on it anywhere. It consists only of a flower spike and the ‘tuberous rootlets’, or ‘coral-like rhizome’, as V.S. Summerhayes described it in Wild Orchids of Britain5 (#litres_trial_promo) (this led to an alternative common name of ‘spurred coral root’). The scientific species name aphyllum even means ‘without leaves’. Since the flowers blend almost perfectly with beech leaves as a backdrop it is little wonder that they so readily escape detection: it’s a ghost in camouflage. It seems to be an impossible plant, because it has no chlorophyll to manufacture vital proteins and sugars. It clearly does not need light; it can grow in deepest shade where no other plant flourishes. In my old copy of Summerhayes, the author attempted to solve the mystery by allowing the ghost orchid to get its nutrients ‘already manufactured’ from ‘the humus of the soil, which consists of numerous more or less decayed parts of plants and also animals’; in other words, to grow like many fungi – which never have chlorophyll. The story is much more nuanced than that, although mushrooms do indeed play a part, as we shall see.

After Eleanor Vachell’s visit the orchid vanished from Lambridge Wood. Stirring up its rhizome would not have helped. Joanna Cary, who lived nearby and was wont to wander in Lambridge as a child, tells me that in the 1950s she used to avoid crossing paths with funny men in gaiters up in the deep woods, and assumed they were flashers, or worse still, burying something unspecified. It was probably Mr Summerhayes and his eminently respectable band of ghost-hunters. Another local plant enthusiast, Vera Paul, continued the botanical tradition by finding Epipogium at a site just a couple of miles away, sporadically, for over thirty years until 1963. I have seen a drawing of the famous plant framed on the wall at her former house in Gallowstree Common. More recently, the orchid disappeared completely for more than twenty years, until a remarkably persistent ghost-pursuer, Mr Jannink, rediscovered a small example in 2009 in one of its old sites near the Welsh border, far, far away from the Chiltern Hills.6 (#litres_trial_promo) The ghost orchid is not extinct in Britain after all. However, nothing I have read explains how a plant with such minute seeds can apparently jump so dramatically from place to place. There is something almost spooky about it.

Another ghost haunts Lambridge Wood. Nobody has actually seen it, but I am assured its presence has been felt. After dodging the ‘dodgy’ gentlemen, Joanna Cary also avoided ‘the murder cottage’. Nowadays, it is a pretty house adjacent to the barn at the very edge of our wood, but its reputation must have lingered on for decades. As the Henley Standard reported at the time: ‘Friday, December 8th 1893 will always be regarded as a black day in the annals of Henley history.’ The body of the thirty-year-old housekeeper who looked after the farmhouse, Miss Kate Dungey, was found in the woods a few yards from the door with ‘a terrible gash in the left side of the neck, and a number of wounds about the head’.

It was quite the shock headline of the day; the gruesome story was reported prominently as far away as New Zealand. It had all the right ingredients to impress the public. ‘The spot is as remote and lonely as could possibly be found, and there is very little likelihood of cries for help being heard,’ the Standard reported; and naturally ‘it was a dark and miserable evening’. Miss Dungey was an interesting victim, ‘of good figure, had dark hair, and is said to have been good looking’ – moreover, she was an ex-governess for the children of Mr Mash, fruiterer and owner of the house, so she had the trappings of a gentlewoman. ‘Almost all around Henley knew Miss Dungey and speak well of her,’ the newspaper continued. Could robbery be a motive when ‘nothing had been touched in the house, not even the watch on the sitting room chair’? There were signs of a struggle and blood by the front door, so perhaps the grisly killing took place as the poor woman attempted to flee her assailant. A thick, cherry-wood cudgel discovered by the body may have been involved, but something much sharper caused the deep gash.

Over the next month new evidence emerged, as well as rumours that Miss Dungey had a romantic interest in a local married man, details of which never appeared. By 3 January 1894 one Walter Rathall had been arrested for the crime. He had worked as a labourer on the farm, and led a rackety and irregular life, being at times little more than a tramp. Jackson’s Oxford Journal reported on 13 January that Rathall slept out in the woods all the previous summer – our woods. The paper described how Kate Dungey had advanced him money, which she never recovered, and that ‘he had been discharged principally through the instrumentality of Miss Dungey, with whom he had several quarrels’. Despite an apparent motive, the circumstantial evidence gathered by the police proved insufficient to secure Rathall’s conviction. He walked free; the murder mystery remained unresolved, as it still is to this day.

Hayden Jones, the current occupant of ‘the murder cottage’, tells me a ghost story. On the hundredth anniversary of the murder it was another ‘dark and miserable evening’, though cosy enough inside the house. Hayden relates that the company decided to have a toast to the memory of ‘poor Kate’. As the glasses were raised all the lights in the house were suddenly extinguished – poof! Hayden had previously encountered a definite reluctance on the part of certain woodsmen to enter his premises: a shake of the head and a polite refusal. A presence, they said. It is all nonsense, of course, as every rationalist will agree. Yet, since I heard the story of Miss Dungey, I have been in the wood on an overcast, windy evening late in the year when I heard a sudden brief, distant cry – it must have been a red kite out late, or even a frightened blackbird. And a crunching noise behind the holly bushes was surely just a small, squirrel-weakened branch falling suddenly and noisily to the ground; it is no restless murderer’s shade on the march. Ignore the sudden shiver. Let’s not be silly.

The tortuous saga of the ghost orchid prompts me to make a thorough quartering of Grim’s Dyke Wood in June. It is too much to ask of my tiny piece of ground, I know, but that does not stop me peering closely at every beech-leaf-filled gulley. I will not miss a thing, I tell myself, and for half an hour I trudge like a botanising zombie up and down, up and down. For an instant, my heart stops. Here are two yellow stems arising from the ground and bearing flowers. There is no sign of a leaf, or anything green. So is it an orchid? The stems curve over at their apices like shepherds’ crooks where perhaps half a dozen yellow flowers hang down, almost in the fashion of our bluebells; however, these flowers are tubular. This is not a shape known from any orchid. This may be no ghost, but it still thrills like a sudden, strange apparition. The Red Data List7 (#litres_trial_promo) records some of the most precious and uncommon species of plants in Great Britain, and this is one of them, in our very own wood! I have known it for many years as an illustration in the Reverend Keble Martin’s indispensable New Concise British Flora. In an even older book I have a list of all the wildflowers I have ever seen, which I have been ticking off since I was a boy: this is one plant that had remained persistently unticked. Nor is it some anonymous, tiny green herb. It is another special plant in the ghost orchid mould lacking all chlorophyll, a spooky spectre, and somehow implausible. It is called the Dutchman’s pipe, or if you prefer, yellow bird’s nest, and by scientists Monotropa hypopitys. I have never met a pipe-smoking Dutchman, but I would now recognise the shape of his favourite accoutrement.

On my hands and knees, I brush away a few loose leaves concealing the bases of the stems of the new discovery. They look a little like blanched asparagus spears, complete with scattered scales. They are the only plants growing in the deep shade. They really do rise straight out of the ground. I would be willing to bet a hundred squirrel tails that if I dug down they would originate from swollen roots such as Eleanor Vachell found for Epipogium. I am not going to try it. A small beetle emerges from one of the flowers, having, I suppose, helped to fertilise it. Over the next few weeks I keep tabs on the small blooms: they last and last. The Dutchman’s pipe is not taking many risks when it comes to setting seed.

Monotropa has recently been the focus of botanical research. In my old edition of Keble Martin – and in many later books – it sits all by itself in its own plant family (Monotropaceae). It seems that no expert could quite make up his or her mind where such a weird, penumbral paradox fitted into the grand scheme of plant evolution. In North America a related, almost supernaturally pallid species is known as the Indian, rather than Dutchman’s, pipe, or sometimes as ‘the corpse plant’ (Monotropa uniflora), which suggests that we are never going to be able to escape the whiff of the graveyard in this chapter. When the techniques of molecular analysis to determine ancestry became widely available it was not long before both species of Monotropa were allied with a much larger plant group, the Ericaceae, the familiar heather (or blueberry) family, with something like four thousand species worldwide. The Dutchman’s pipe was, in its essentials, a heather that had lost everything above ground except the flowers. Now that I study them again, the flowers of Monotropa do indeed recall those of strawberry trees, blueberries or bell heathers – perhaps we should have known all along. Occasionally, science just reinforces common sense.

The root of the ghost puzzle really is the root. All our ghostly plants, whether orchid or pipe, have similar-looking roots, which are tuberous and puffy. Both the loss of chlorophyll and the ability to thrive under the beech canopy are the result of special adaptations secretly hidden away underground. V.S. Summerhayes was right in essence: neither the Dutchman’s pipe nor the ghost orchid manufactures its own nutrients. But he was wrong to assume that these plants were what he termed ‘saprophytes’ – that they sourced all they needed from the rotting leaf litter surrounding them. The explanation is both more complicated and much more wonderful than mere scavenging. Monotropa and Epipogium are playing parasitic piggyback on mushrooms. In the case of the Dutchman’s pipe the fungus has been identified with an ordinary-looking mushroom that has been called the girdled knight (Tricholoma cingulatum)8 (#litres_trial_promo) – not exactly a regular ‘shop mushroom’, since it has a greyish cap and white gills, but constructed along the same familiar lines. Our pallid plant has given up any attempt to manufacture its own necessities in favour of stealing all it wants from its fungus host. Above ground, it needs to be nothing more than flowers and seeds. Like some Regency dandy feeding off colonial slavery, the organism can be all show and no hard graft. The distinctive roots of the plant reveal the truth: they are full of fungus, and modern techniques of DNA analysis allow the molecular biologist to identify exactly which species from a choice of thousands. When I started out in science as a botanising youth this would have been impossible, but now it is almost routine procedure back in the laboratory.

However, this is not the end of the story. For the fungus itself lives in an intimate association with beech trees in deep woodland. The ‘roots’ of the fungus are masses of threads called mycelium. These threads move through the moist soil seeking out nutrients, and they are skilled in reprocessing all that mush and drift of rotting leaves. Mycelium is the workhorse of the fungus, while the familiar mushroom fruit body is just the culmination of the life cycle for spreading the minute spores of the species. Like many other fungi, Tricholoma forms a partnership with the roots of beeches, where it can live for many years. The threads of mycelium fully coat the growing tips of the roots rather as tight-fitting kid gloves enclose the fingers, and the fungal talent for acquiring important foodstuffs such as phosphates from the surrounding environment becomes essential for the healthy growth of the tree. The fungus-coated rootlets seek out valuable molecules. The fungal dressing is called mycorrhiza, which is simply a classical way of saying ‘fungus root’. Mycorrhiza makes for a reciprocal partnership, because the tree in its turn does what it does best – manufacturing sugars and other products of photosynthesis – and supplies them to the growing fungus, which cannot make them for itself. It is a symbiosis, an intimate growing-together. Like a well-honed comedy duo, each partner would fall flat without the other.

So the Dutchman’s pipe is at the foppish apex of a ménage à trois. The beech works with sunshine and rainfall, and supplies the fungal partner on its roots with the means to quest for more exotic vital nourishment. Monotropa is a parasite on the fungus, so indirectly it too benefits from the photosynthetic work of the lofty beeches, and can dispense with its own green parts. The fungus supplies everything else. Freed from the need for light, the parasite can safely flower in deeply shady glades where nothing else can prosper.9 (#litres_trial_promo) Nor does it have to flower every year. In a bad year for either tree or fungus it can hang on as a root or rhizome hidden beneath the litter, biding its time. Now we can understand the fickleness of those ghostly appearances. The spooks might really be there all the time.





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