The Space Between

The tree of life, the world tree, the sacred tree are all familiar concepts which rather blend into each other, being a fundamental archetype that permeates many of the world's mythological, philosophical and religious traditions, including mentions in the bible. This is an archetype that is represented visually in all kinds of places. We have a cushion, for example, a present for our 50th wedding anniversary which has our initials centred in a heart formed by the main branches of an embroidered image of the Tree of Life.

Trees are one representation of an Axis Mundi. An Axis Mundi is an archetype of any sacred place that connects heaven to earth, gods to humans. It is a sacred, spiritual, or a holy centre on earth. In Tibetan Buddhism, Mount Kailash holds a special place as the Axis Mundi, or the centre of the universe. Imagine it as the heart of everything, where heaven and earth meet. This sacred mountain isn't just a random peak; it's regarded as a cosmic hub, connecting different realms together.

For the Celts, however, their Axis Mundi was trees and it seems that this sentiment could still be reverberating in our epigenetics, if not precisely in our DNA. It was two or three years ago that the inexplicable felling by vandals of the iconic Sycamore Gap tree by Hadrian’s Wall led to a national outpouring of anger and grief.

According to the National Trust who own the land now, the tree was planted in the late 19th century by the Newcastle lawyer John Clayton (1792) which made it about 150 years old. It was specifically sited as a feature in a dramatic dip between two sections of rising land. The symmetry of its position was echoed in the beautifully balanced shape of its crown.

(The Sycamore Gap Tree.)

Though the sycamore, Acer pseudoplatanus, is not technically a native it is common and widely recognisable. Standing alone in what is (in our era) a rolling moorland landscape, the Sycamore Gap tree became a landmark. After its incidental inclusion in the movie ‘Robin Hood Prince of Thieves’ and one or two other commercial things, it became one of the most photographed trees in the country, famous for trysts and proposals. What, exactly, Robin Hood was doing up on Hadrian’s wall is best known to the producers of the movie.

The outpouring of emotion over the loss of the tree arose, at least in part, as a result of this celebrity. Yet, almost daily, ancient and veteran trees are being felled, unsung, in order to make room for human expansion. Whereas once the Wild Wood - in reality temperate rainforest - apparently covered approximately 25% of Britain, it now covers only one percent.

The government’s plans to build more and more housing is, of necessity, encroaching into what were once distinct neighbourhoods or discreet villages. Some open spaces have to go and also trees. In these urban expansions and accommodations, to fell or not to fell has been a provocative question for a long time, and whilst ‘tree huggers’ were once ridiculed as nothing but nimby nuisances, there seems to have been an observable change in the general attitude.

Whatever the cause of this psychological shift, a few practical measures have been instituted to support it. To aid the necessary assessments, CAVAT, Capital Asset Value for Amenity Trees, was developed by Chris Neilan and the London Tree Officers Association (LTOA) in 2008. Typical, of course, for the bottom line to be in pounds, shillings and pence but many local authorities use the system and it isn’t easy, offhand, to think of another way to provide an ‘at a glance’ summary of a potentially controversial situation. In this system, which includes a detailed assessment of the tree itself as well as its local standing, each of several factors is allotted a figure, and the value of the Sycamore Gap tree was estimated at over six hundred thousand pounds.

In what feels to me like another blow to our national heritage, this year has seen the death of The Major Oak - Robin Hood’s tree in Sherwood Forest. Folklore claims that the massive hollow trunk served as the secret hideout of Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

This oak has stood since before the Norman Conquest, weighs an estimated 23 tons, has a girth of 33ft and a canopy of 92ft. It became a tourist attraction after being mentioned by Major Hayman Rooke, an English antiquarian, in his 1790 work ‘Descriptions and Sketches of some Remarkable Oaks’. The tree was dubbed “the Major Oak” in his honour. It is, perhaps, more commonly referred to as Robin Hood’s Oak.

The legend, coupled with Rooke’s book and, more recently, a win in the Tree of The Year competition in 2014, has drawn millions of visitors for over 200 years. According to records, the tree was only fenced off to protect it from tourists by the 1970s. In fact, we visited it in 1974 when we were working just outside Nottingham and I don’t remember its being fenced off then. Nor was there anybody else around but …

A victim of its own success, the tree ostensibly died because the soil around it became compacted due to endless footfall. Potential problems with root compaction had been recognised, including those all important interactions between roots and microbes and mycorrhizal fungi, and they were addressed by endless experts over the last few years. Sadly, recent dry summers seem to have been the tipping point.

Although the tree is dead, it will be kept in the forest as a “national monument” where it will still provide a vital habitat for wildlife. Acorns and cuttings were taken from the tree before it died, and have already grown into saplings which have been planted throughout the world. I am asking for one for Christmas.

Robin Hood apart, there seems to be something about oak trees that speaks to the human consciousness. Within the space of our own history, the Druids are recorded as frequently worshipping and practising their rites in oak groves. The word Druid may even derive from a Celtic word meaning “knower of the oak tree”. The Gaelic word for oak is darach and remains in place names such as Glac Daraich (oak hollow/small valley) in Glen Affric.

The oak was also foremost amongst venerated trees for the Greeks, Romans, Slavs and Teutonic tribes. Its leaves have continued as decorative icons of military prowess to the present day. In the case of each of these ‘tribes’, the tree was associated with the supreme god in their pantheon, being sacred to Zeus, Jupiter, Dagda, Perun and Thor accordingly. Each of these gods also had dominion over rain, thunder and lightning.

Interesting then, that oak trees seem more likely to be struck by lightning than most. This has been put down to having a higher water content than other trees but, although their deep rooting makes completing the circuit easier for the strike, their water content has been assessed as unexceptional and the tree’s ‘apparent susceptibility more likely to be an observational effect’. Old oaks are often enormous, isolated, long-lived trees standing in exposed positions - precisely the circumstances that make any tree a lightning target.

Though our own oak tree is by no means classifiable as ancient, it gets a mention in Arthur Mee’s book ‘Gloucestershire’ published in 1938 as part of his Kings England or Domesday series. Quote : “A curious tale we were told of a group of oaks at Showborough House, for they were grown from a squirrel’s hoard of acorns found in the trunk of an elm felled about two generations ago.”

(Our oak tree - apparently the only one remaining from the ‘group’ Sept 2026.)

Though lacking the extensive forest cover that mainland Europe has, we apparently have more ancient oaks in the UK than in the rest of the European countries combined. This is put down to history rather than habitat or ecology. William the Conqueror designated royal parks for deer for hunting and venison. It is that forest law that gave us the current situation. Epping Forest, for instance, is full of veteran and ancient trees of one sort or another.

The other tree that has had a similar impact on our psyches is the yew. A friend of Andrew’s, with whom he has stayed in touch since army days, counts himself lucky to have been raised in Glen Lyon in proximity to The Fortingall Yew - surely one of the world’s most famous trees. Recognising it as such for at least 300 years, people used to hack bits off it to carve into trinkets.

To be classed as ancient, a yew tree has to be over 800yrs old. (The oak, over 400yrs). The Ankerwycke yew at Runnymede may be the last living witness to the signing of the Magna Carta.

The aging of yews is notoriously trying (even with carbon dating which has exhibited problems of its own in other circumstances, eg mummies). The specific problem with aging the yew tree is that the wood in the centre decays so the tree eventually becomes hollow.

Nevertheless, it is speculated that the Fortingall Yew could be up to 5,000 years old - a sapling when Abraham walked the earth. Incredible.

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(The Fortingall Yew showing its split trunk.)

It is now enclosed in a churchyard - maybe this was originally to keep its poisonous foliage away from the increasing number of livestock in the area, though a commoner viewpoint would be that a Christian place of worship had been imposed on a pagan one. Naturally, this provokes dispute.

There are at least 500 English churchyards where yews are older than the present church buildings and a churchyard is a liminal place, a borderland between life and death, and is consequently a very suitable location for trees which have long been regarded as liminal trees, thresholds between life and death, this world and the next. The yew has many inherent characteristics which have earned it this dubious distinction.

As can be seen in the photograph, an ancient yew may have a massive, hollow, apparently dead centre while living tissue continues around it. It can look simultaneously ancient beyond comprehension and yet perpetually alive, putting out new branches from what looks to be unviable tissue. Moreover, yews are dioecious and the Fortingall Yew is a male, yet now it has put out a branch that bears berries - or more correctly, arils - as if it were about to start a new life as a female.

Moreover, a tree that has a strong association with death and whose needles contain highly poisonous taxine compounds that can cause fatal poisoning can also, through pharmaceutical processing which isolates and purifies specific taxanes, provide drugs which are used to treat cancer - one of the diseases most closely associated with mortality.

Indeed, the yew is a liminal tree in so many ways that it is a prime candidate for embodying the idea that death is not necessarily the opposite of life but part of a larger cycle. And that is a concept that has served the purpose of both the pre-Christian European religions and Christianity and made the yew tree compatible with and embraced by both.

To add to their distinction, both the oak and the yew have been of considerable military significance to this country - Nelson’s navy, ‘ Heart of oak are our ships’, goes the song, whilst on land the yew gave us the English longbow. The longbow itself had been in use in many countries for thousands of years but by the 14th and 15th centuries it had become pivotal in English armies - though it’s use may well have been pioneered by the Welsh. Longbowmen - including Welshmen - played important roles at Crécy, Poitiers, Agincourt, etc.

(Not to mention their indirect contribution to a couple of Shakespearean speeches which are endlessly rehashed and recycled by Hollywood scriptwriters. Did you spot that in ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’?)

Yew is almost uniquely suited to making a powerful self-bow which is a bow made from one piece of wood, a single judiciously selected stave. The sapwood, immediately beneath the bark, is exceptionally good at resisting tension, the darker heartwood is particularly good at resisting compression. The two parts thus perform complementary jobs.

These bows were nothing like a modern sporting bow as evidenced by the ones recovered from the Mary Rose, Henry V111’s flagship. They were generally around 2 metres long, with draw weights in the region of 100–180 lb. The training that men undertook from an early age in order to become bowmen who could, in battle, have three arrows in the air at the same time, distorted their whole musculoskeletal system.

By this point, you might not be surprised to read that trees could be in line to be granted personhood! Last year, Rother District Council passed a motion recognising the rights of a single yew tree. The Council’s authority did not extend to making their 1066 Yew a legal person in English law but their resolution supported the introduction into law of rights for trees and welcomed Crowhurst Parish Council's support for “personhood status” for the yew.

This year, Lewes in East Sussex passed a motion acknowledging that its woodlands, hedgerows, forests and individual trees have the “right to flourish”, raising campaigners’ hopes that it will offer trees greater protection against developers who wish to have them chopped down.

Contrary to what you might think, this is not an idea spawned by modern views on ecology. Indeed, the idea of nature as a person or being is very ancient. Long before modern law, many societies did not regard a river, mountain, tree or lake as merely an inanimate object but as a being, ancestor, deity, spirit, or manifestation of a living cosmos.

The intellectual roots of the modern movement to enshrine the rights of trees go back to the American legal scholar Christopher Stone's 1972 essay, "Should Trees Have Standing?" Stone argued that natural objects could be given legal standing so that their interests could be defended in court.

Though we have vociferous and frequently irritating ecological movements in this country, we are behind in this matter compared to other places. As with trees, there have been motions passed by several towns and villages here to recognise the ‘rights’ of rivers but these motions are far behind one example in New Zealand.

In 2017 New Zealand's Parliament enacted legislation declaring the Whanganui River be a legal person, with the rights, powers, duties and liabilities of a legal person. The Whanganui iwi Māori had traditionally understood the river as Te Awa Tupua — an indivisible, living entity, expressed in the remarkable statement: ‘Ko au te Awa, ko te Awa ko au’ which translates as : "I am the River and the River is me."

None of the previously mentioned council motions in the UK have anything like this legal standing. However, the route is open - modern Western law invented the corporation as an artificial "person", and so some contemporary legal systems are now using the same legal device to recognise entities that indigenous cultures had never regarded as mere things in the first place.

To conclude, I come back to the subject of liminality. A river, spring, ancient tree or boundary grove occupies a position between categories: land and water, living and dead, human and non-human, ordinary and sacred. Such places are points of relationship between the human world and the other-than-human world.

In short, the modern legal movement is now being tasked with putting into its language a reviving but extraordinarily old intuition: nature isn't merely something humans own; particular places, and particular trees can have an identity of their own.