Harmless Sky

1. In the heyday of the Welsh gentry there was at Aber Artro a dower house of the Corsygedol estate.  From beech planted in its grounds may have come the compact beech wood, beautiful in all seasons and spectacular in bluebell time, celebrated in Anne Stevenson’s poem, “May Bluebells, Coed Aber Artro”, and in Dave Newbould’s photograph -

No more.  The brutal culling of the beech (some felled trees are over 3ft in diameter, no recent arrivals) is captured in Stephen Coll’s photographs (”after-comers cannot guess the beauty been”: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Binsey Poplars felled 1879) -

2. To attempt to unravel the mystery of the damage gratuitously inflicted on Coed Aber Artro (”the Coed”) by Woodland Trust (”WT”) and Countryside Council for Wales (”CCW”) - bodies charged with its protection and wholly or partly funded by the taxpayer - is to embark on a strange and surprising journey to Brussels Read the rest of this entry »

The Woodland Trust (WT) and the Countryside Council for Wales (CCW) have declared that the primary reason for the recent culling of mature beech in Coed Aber Artro was to encourage the regeneration of Atlantic Oak Woodland as part of the Meirionydd Oakwoods Habitat Management Project. The need is arguable; however, with their declarations in mind, it would be useful to note what is actually apparent on the ground within Coed Aber Artro.

Coed Aber Artro at the time of the felling                                                              Photo: Stephen Coll

If you follow the public footpath east from Llanbedr, on through the WT area and beyond to the Cefn Uchaf campsite, the woodland comprising Coed Aber Artro can be broadly divided into five sectors.

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The poet Anne Stevenson has known and loved the Aber Artro woods for many years. She has very kindly permitted me to reproduce a poem from Anne Stevenson: Poem 1955-2005, published by Bloodaxe. Photographer Dave Newbould shares Anne’s concern about what has happened at Aber Artro.

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On Friday evening I visited a beautiful beechwood near our house that is famous for its display of bluebells at this time of year, but I didn’t go there to admire wild flowers.

At half-past-six on a wet, gloomy and cold evening, about thirty-five local people gathered round a rather nervous looking representative of the Woodland Trust who had arranged the meeting. He was supposed to explain to us why his organisation, which is supposedly dedicated to preserving woodland, had decided to decimate a place that we had all come to love and treasure. For the last eighteen months or so the scream of power saws has polluted the aether as beech trees whose age can be measured in centuries rather than decades were felled.

There is something special about a beech wood. The tall, grey, arching trunks, and the canopy that their branches form, are reminiscent of the columns and vaulting of an ancient cathedral. Peace and stillness is to be found in such places, and people tend to speak quietly, in awe of the majesty of their surroundings. Read the rest of this entry »