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. Continue reading »
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