Sycamore Gap - so much more than just a tree.

Number two in a series on trees.

I’m up on the Wall again, writing about trees. That’s Hadrian’s Wall, here in Northumberland, which can be seen from our gaff if you walk up the hill a bit. What you can see, if you look to the distant horizon as the Whin Sill forms peaks and troughs in the landscape, is a gap, reminiscent of my seven- year-old granddaughter’s mouth with their teeth missing. The gap in question was once home to a tree, a sycamore tree, which on a stormy night on the 28th September 2023 was brutally and non-nonsensically chopped down. But of course, you already know this. The news travelled far and wide. Outrage, anger, and disbelief spread like wraiths in the night, pepppered with the odd comment of ‘but it was only a tree!’

I wrote about the felling of the tree at Sycamore Gap a few days after it happened, recording some of the local feeling about it. You can read that post here:

Today I’m back writing about Sycamore Gap, this time, as a commission, my piece is being used as part of a Tree Trail, looking at trees (or in this case, the absence of a tree) along Hadrian’s Wall. The only brief was that my writing should be from the point of view of the tree itself.

I’ve already shared the piece I wrote about The Peace Labyrinth at Walltown Crags with you, but here it is again if you’d like to read, and this time, the paywall has been removed.

I’m delighted that Nick, the curator of the tree trail project, has invited me to write about Sycamore Gap. My writing, along with others, will be available on an app, the link to which I’ll share in due course, my piece being accompanied by a lament played on the cello. The sequel to The Rewilding of Molly McFlynn, which I’m writing at the moment, will feature the felling of Sycamore Gap in the story. As yet, my book is without a title, so if you fancy suggesting one, I’m all ears! The book is to be about grief, hope, and action, and has trees very much at its heart.

I’ve kept all of these pieces above the paywall, as I’d love for you all to read them, but if you are able to upgrade your subscription, to give a small payment for my words, then I’d be eternally grateful.

So, without further ado, here is my submission story for Sycamore Gap, written from the POV of the tree, and with a nod to the sequel of The Rewilding of Molly McFlynn.

Photo by Andrew Masters on Unsplash

Sycamore Gap. Veteran Tree Project.

Hopefully that’s the last of them! What a day it’s been. I’m emotionally wrung out, looking forward to a bit of peace. Early doors, there was a lone hiker, walking boots and gaiters, a steady march down the steps, enamel cup clanking against his backpack; a quick photo with me in the background, and then he was on his way, solid steps, with strength in his stride. Coast to Coast along the Wall they come and go, West to East, East to West. I wonder which is best.

There’s always a steady procession of Gore-Tex-clad outdoor enthusiasts. They pause to pour tea from flasks, eat sandwiches, or take a swig from water bottles. Most respect the space, but then the day-trippers arrive in their inappropriate clothing, muttering about the weather, clambering all over the Wall, dropping their litter, and snapping selfies for their socials.

Couples come to get engaged, hopeful ring bearers on bended knees. Families spread blankets on the ground, and children run rings around me. I had a film crew and a Prince of Thieves here once. Famous, I am! I would hazard a guess that I’m the most photographed tree in the world. Professional photographers set up tripods and take photos in the snow, in the sun, with the stars and the moon. And when the Northern Lights appear, oh, how rich I’d be if I could sell tickets!

The wind’s got up and it’s starting to rain, so that should be it, but no, I can sense someone else approaching. Not the solid gait of sturdy-calved walkers, but a stumble, trip of one unsure. It is a girl, and she’s sobbing. I hear a lot of crying and have had ashes aplenty spread at my base. Not that I mind, the potash is good for the soil. Yes, this girl is grieving. She reaches out to touch my trunk, looks up to the canopy, and calls his name. ‘Jez!’

What can I offer her? If I could reach down and spread my branches around her in a hug, I would. She is bereft. I will her to lean into my trunk, feel the heart of my wood, and she does. She wraps her arms around my girth, places her face against my bark, and I put all my energy into loving her back. My heartwood, her grief, melding into one as the tears fall.

‘Sshh! Sshh!’ Your love is here; he speaks to you now. He is in the wind; he is in the sound of my leaves. You are held and you are loved. She sits on the ground, leans her back against my trunk, shuts her eyes, and allows her tears to fall.

It is almost dark, the sun long gone, when she stands, reaches into the pocket of the too-big leather jacket she is wearing, and pulls out a silver chain. Hanging from it is the Tree of Life. She clips it over a branch, and I see she wears one just the same around her neck. She kisses it, places her hand once last time against my trunk, and then she is gone. An owl hoots as the light fades, and I am left to weather the storm.

Some will say I was just a tree, but to many I was so much more.

The End.

Sue Reed.