May Storm

On the last Monday of May, unusually for this time of year, there was a storm. Our three massive beech trees became giant seaweeds swaying in the current. Watching from a window I saw a stream of leafy broken twigs flowing at eye level from south to north. A voice on the radio repeatedly interrupted the scheduled programme to tell of roads all over the country blocked by fallen trees; but it was mid-afternoon before a great limb was torn from one of our beech trees, the tree on which W. Moore had carved his name in 1914, probably before he set off to fight in the Great War realising he might never return.

The bulk of the torn limb was taken away by the men who cleared the road. Beech is a hardwood the colour of dried pasta. I can think of no reason why it cannot be turned into beautiful furniture, but the fate of this beech branch is to be sawn into logs and burned. Meanwhile we import shesham wood furniture from India where carpentry skills have not died out. The price of oil and other fuels has been steadily increasing, so it is not surprising that the largest remaining chunks of wood also disappeared. That left a heap of unwanted branches blocking the footpath.

One day last week John and I started to dismantle the pile disdained by power-saw owners. We threw, heaved, pulled and dragged branches back into our own territory, returning the next day to continue the work. Using muscle power I sawed up a few of the smaller, shorter branches and burned them for comfort during these June evenings when the temperature can drop, untypically, to a few degrees above zero.

Two long pasta-coloured gashes mark the places where the limb became detached from the tree. What should we do next? The beeches may be coming to the end of their lives. John has just found a google map showing how mature trees lined this road in 1860. The lifespan of a beech is reckoned to be between 150 and 200 years, but it may survive up to 300 years.

The people who planted the trees thought ahead. Future generations would enjoy their beauty, their nuts would provide food for birds, their branches fuel for people, their timber could be shaped into chairs or staircases or parquet floors. But it was not to work out that way. Trees are now not a resource but a financial liability to their owners. A day’s work by a tree surgeon could cost the equivalent of a year’s minimum wage.

I see a very large jinn called the Free Market striding the Earth, determining what we eat, how we keep ourselves warm, what we wear, how we earn our living. With a cup of coffee beside me, I am aware of the benefits it has brought, but also of the way the straitjacket has been steadily tightening.