Ramblings from Finemere Wood

Ramblings from Finemere Wood

Hazel catkins dangling down

"We step back to admire our work. The area is brighter, lighter, renewed, and marked by human care."

The ground is sodden and slippery from perpetual rain, which we fear will never stop. Yet if you turn your attention away from this dominant force for a moment, you will notice that the days are drawing out and a new energy is stirring in the world.  

A bold, bright sun occasionally breaks through the clouds; the leaves of spring flowers are emerging tentatively from the ground; and the birds are singing. It is mainly our resident feathered friends who are exercising their vocal cords as they claim their territory and mobilise themselves for breeding. The loud, varied call of the song thrush; the repetitive two-note song of the great tit; and the rich melodic song of the robin.

A great tit, with black cap, white cheeks and yellow breast, perched on a bare branch singing.

The volunteers are lively and spirited. Perhaps they too are energised by the longer daylight hours, as they put all their strength into clearing yet another large area of scrub and trees. This section, I feel sure, will be the last tackled this winter season.  It is an area that has not been cleared for many years, long before the woodland workers first appeared thirteen years ago.  An area of hazel and field maple coppices with multiple stems, willow with its many draping branches, a smattering of tall, slender birch and a tangle of hawthorn and blackthorn. And the trees are tall.

Each worker approaches this challenge in their own way. There is the mindful one who pauses before drawing the saw out, methodically planning the coppicing of a multi-stemmed hazel tree before acting, like a slow, deliberate chess game. The cut branches are woven meticulously into a dead hedge.

A person sat on a hedge of cut branches, with saw in hand.

There is the mindful one who pauses before drawing the saw out, methodically planning the coppicing of a multi-stemmed hazel tree before acting, like a slow, deliberate chess game. The cut branches are woven meticulously into a dead hedge.

There is the eager one, whose saw is out before I say “go”, who charges in without hesitation, knocking down tree after tree, a trail of debris in their wake.

And then there are those whose hungry eyes seek out the biggest of trees. They clear the surrounding area of scrub and then home in on their target with glee. Large saws in hand, they make slick felling cuts. A shout of “Timber!”, and down comes the tree with a thud.

A person kneeling at the base of a tree in winter clothing, holding a cut branch in their hand.

The volunteers are lively and spirited. Perhaps they too are energised by the longer daylight hours, as they put all their strength into clearing yet another large area of scrub and trees.

I have underestimated the team again. This task was supposed to take three sessions. In just one, it is nearly done. We step back to admire our work. The area is brighter, lighter, renewed, and marked by human care.

 

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