Full circle - the meaning of place

A landscape, an anchor point, a place with meaning and memories that far exceed the sum of its soil, sand and sea. 600 odd acres of woodland, park and shoreline that have changed my life forever. A farewell today, to the place that will remain, evolve, change, continue to exist as if I have never been there, whilst I carry it with me.

A dark day, with torrential rain; the atmosphere itself inexplicably but vividly reminding me of the countless times before that I had wandered those paths, rain dripping from the trees, or sun beating down, or snow coating all. The weather was a fitting tribute to the mournful feeling of roaming a place that became home, that became more than a home, and yet somewhere I am slowly becoming a stranger to. Sitting in the courtyard outside "my" old cottage - now renovated, lacking its interior rustic charm. I'll cling onto my experience of it instead, the bumbling insects, noisy mice, peeling paint. I was a stranger there in what was my garden; it's a picnic spot, and anyone looking in would have seen two people taking a seat, not knowing the parties we'd had there years previously, and what it meant to be sat there once more for old times sake

This place, this small slice of history and manufactured countryside, brought me up north. It, and the woman I met there, kept me in the area; even when eventually living on the other side of Scotland, it still had a hold on my life. It is tightly bound with the friendships, the love and the loss, the beginning of a chain reaction that has always felt slightly surreal. Improbably, she was there today too; a second of eye contact, before it was broken by awkwardness, pain and pride, both pretending we hadn't noticed each other. Fifteen minutes later, stood in the spot where I first said those three special words - the start and the end, both at this place. It could be no other way; we met there, we lived and loved there, and now, our last sighting of each other is there.

The trees, too, constant reminders. Adam and Eve, still majestic; I touched Eve's healing wound, the dried resin smooth over the rough of her trunk. I squeezed the fibres of the redwoods, thinking of the treecreepers hiding in old branch wounds. That small, but for some reason memorable, pruning wound on a turkey oak - I remember quite clearly doing that. I guess I've had my own little lasting impact on the place after all. The gnarled sycamores, beeches and turkey oaks that we scrambled around in on a fine winter afternoon, and many other times between. The copper beech that saw some of my earliest attempts at tree climbing with ropes. The turkey oak by the path, with its lowest branches perfectly placed for sitting on - and rubbed smooth by the countless visitors taking this opportunity. The time tree, now inexplicably without its eye-catching platform around it - just a large beech in the woods now, nothing to mark it out as different, nothing to catch the attention and fire the curiosity of visitors. I instantly think of a photo of myself, standing on the now-absent platform with beer in hand, now impossible to re-create. It was here where a passion for woodlands and trees developed and made me re-think what I wanted from life; in a way, the woods and trees here are responsible for me leaving to pursue that passion.

The love-heart shaped outcrop of rocks into the ocean - though today looking more like a meaningless triangle, neither the tide nor my emotions being at the right ebb to convert it into a romantic sign. In a strange twist of fate, I stopped at the spot where we had first kissed, and on the shore below two sets of footprints could be seen coming together from separate sources, walking side-by-side before diverging off again in the distance. It's as if the beach knew, remembered, and communicated. Despite the rain I stopped at my favourite point, above Port Carrick, where we had whistled to seals and where, as the rocks, sea and sand all merged into black one summer twilight I finally saw that elusive otter, just discernible from the dark closing in as it clambered over rocks, slid into the sea and swam away across the bay. The same spot where that beautiful black/white photograph was taking, now hidden away from view but still taken out and studied at times, having become a melancholic reminder of person, time and space.

This place, that for some will be just a boring place of work, or where they walk their dogs of an evening; this place, so mundane to some, will always be with me. It will always mean something I can't explain; more than just a country park, a visitor attraction, it is to me an embodiment of an adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime experience that then kept going, dipping in and out of my life over three and a half years. For all it is passive, a collection of habitats and organisms and people, it has played a large part in shaping and moulding me; and leaving this afternoon, possibly for the last time, the feeling was one of finality, of a chapter ending, of the adventure being over.

Woodland stewardship?

Over the summer the organisation I work for (renowned as being at the forefront of forest and woodland management) took on a new site, again in an urban and deprived area. The idea was to do work to improve access and tidy it up, so that people will use it and in theory become happier through greenspace use.

Our first job was to go and cut a path line through the woods - a 2m wide strip with all vegetation out of it. Whilst still quite destructive, we did it sensitively to wind around interesting trees and create nice curves to the path. At the end, with a bit of tidying up (e.g. stumps cut to the ground, herbaceous plants mown, etc) it looked like quite a nice path, and one that would be easy enough to walk on as is.

Whilst on annual leave, the works started. Apparently my colleagues were called in to cut more trees out of the way; these guys weren't with us when we did the initial work, so had no idea of the trees we were retaining and views we were trying to create. Then the contractors laid a 2m wide strip of asphalt-type material (I'm no civil engineer so can't say exactly), with about a 1.5m wide massive ditch on one side, and the spoil from excavation dumped the other side.

The result? A ridiculously wide, hard, completely artificial and out of place footpath through the woods, with a huge raw ditch to one side with severed roots of the trees right on the edge of the ditch exposed. Tree safety issues in the future..? And the trees on the other side of the path, covered with about 30cm or so of spoil above the depth at which they've rooted - again, the trees will die on their feet. The rubbish exposed by digging is still lying there next to the path.

Why oh why are we, supposedly the benchmark for the industry, treating the woods like this? Poor tree management on either side of the new footpath, with spoil heaps round them or damaged root systems. After this organisation provides training on urban woodland planning, with the emphasis on softer landscaping and features that blend in with the surrounding woodland, the managers who have attended this training decide the opposite. And spend more money on creating nasty, over-engineered features. We're here for tree and woodland health first and foremost. A small, simple track cut through the woods would suffice. If that's not enough, then a stone-built track like most nature reserve areas have would still be smaller, lighter and less intrusive. But it's hard to describe just how out of place this footpath is.

The woodland feels somewhat ruined now. An intrusive, artificial path, damaged trees to either side, and over-engineered features that have to fit a specification apparently required (instead of rustic, simple benches made from greenwood?) all take away from the mystique and wild atmosphere the woods once had. I must admit, I feel somewhat ashamed to be part of the organisation who decided that this is woodland management.

Log rocket stove

Having seen the idea in the Living Woods magazine, I made and trialled a rocket stove from a larch log. It's pretty simple - essentially boring an L shaped chimney through the log, so that a fire can be lit inside and cooked on.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocket_stove

As you'd imagine, setting a fire in a log makes the thing non-reusable, but then the whole point is that it slowly burns from the inside out and so not only do you have a cooker, but you also have a camp-fire for the rest of the evening.

I lit the fire inside with the usual tinder/kindling and fed it for a little while, propping the mess tin up on two larger blocks of kindling to allow for easy air flow through the chimney. The flame was almost too intense at times and it wasn't long until I could stop feeding the stove with kindling, as the log itself had lit.

It took about three hours to burn through, during which the chimney slowly expanded in size as the fire burnt, and the pattern it made inside the log as darkness fell was wonderful. In the end the walls fell in and it became a smaller pile of burning wood on the base, still with ferocious heat, that we eventually had to put out before bedtime.

"I'm lost in a forest, all alone..."

Decided to spend a sunny Sunday doing a lonely walk from one of those "short walk" books - a circular route that takes in the Falls of Leny, near Callander. I've always loved woodlands, found them to be the place that I feel most at peace. Setting off I found myself walking alongside a lovely natural oak woodland, with beautiful, spaced oaks, birches and alders festooned with mosses and lichens. After wondering off-path to get a better look at the river and the Falls of Leny, I followed small desire lines and deer tracks to wander through the woods.

There was no-one else there, despite the cycle path at the top of the hill and the road on the other side of the river. I felt more at peace than I have for a long time. No-one talking to me, or feeling that I have to talk to someone. Perhaps we all need to head into the woods, lose ourselves in them, feel at peace.

Maybe its today with our descent from arboreal primates? Maybe its the comfort of being relatively hidden from those outside of the woodland? Who knows. All I know is that I wandered around, completely immersed in the woods, and saw no-one else who had ventured off-path. I came across a stout, squat oak with an almost open-grown quality to it. I climbed up to the top, slipping a bit on the luxuriant moss, and then just hung around in the canopy for a while, enjoying the different perspective on the world. I felt completely hidden from view up there, away from the world and its pressures.

A natural archway, formed by a young ash. No idea what caused it.

I know it won't work for everyone - other people have their own special places, whether up mountains, on beaches, or in great cathedrals. But for me, that oakwood helped me escape from everything going on for a couple of blissful, lonely hours.

Grizedale archway

One of the many wood-based sculptures at the Forestry Commission's Grizedale site in Cumbria.

I love this one. An upside down section of larch, using the tree's natural form and growth habit to make an interesting archway. It's simple, it's elegant, and it's natural, all one piece of timber. Beautiful.

Mr Motivator?

My current job is one as a warden of primarily urban 'community woodlands' in some quite deprived and socially isolated parts of Glasgow. Anyone else involved in urban conservation or forestry will identify immediately with the antisocial behaviour this attracts.

By maintaining woodlands in areas with high levels of crime, drug use and anti-social behaviour, it really is quite fair to say that we are creating the perfect place for people to behave irresponsibly. Woods by their very nature are quite hidden, secretive and easy to disappear into - step in a few rows, and people will walk past without noticing anyone is in the trees. And so, in the woods I work in (and doubtless many others in urban areas up and down the country), it's normal, expected even to find fly tipping, fires, people burning plastic off copper wiring, trees hacked down through mindless vandalism, and used syringes. Nice.

How does one keep motivated doing these jobs? Sometimes, it feels like an uphill struggle, like you're battering your head off a brick wall. Time after time, filling a van with rubbish weekly, tidying up after people who can't be bothered to carry that bottle or crisp packet back to their house. Or the people who, instead of leaving their rubbish on the kerb right outside their door (where the council will lift it for free), they spend energy pulling it into our woods, generally ripping the bags in the process, and we then spend our time pulling it all out again. I picked up six bags worth of fly tipping at the entrance to one woodland the other day - someone was clearing out old clothes, birthday cards and other childhood memorabilia, and decided that just behind the entrance wall was the perfect place for it to go. Cheers buddy.

I can't help but get angry, want to sack it all in and say a big f*** you to the people in these communities. We try and maintain positive, accessible and interesting green spaces right next to people's houses, and all we ask in return is a bit of respect. But then they get abused, degraded. The woven hazel fence I posted about below has now been ripped apart by kids, who obviously felt offended that I'd put time and effort into creating an interesting structure.

I see the other side of the argument - I really do. I understand that the majority of people do appreciate accessible green space in their area. I know that what we do is ultimately improving peoples' lives, and we're possibly inspiring future conservationists and naturalists with every school group we take out.We do get the odd positive comment from people walking through, glad to see us out there doing work (one nice lady even brought me a soft drink from her house whilst I was strimming on a hot day - very much appreciated!). But, unfortunately, for the people on the ground working on these kind of sites, we mainly only see the aftermath of that minority that see the woods as a place to drink in, shoot up in, ditch their rubbish in, do illegal activities in, and vandalise trees or features in. We spend our time seeing it, dealing with it, tidying it up knowing that come the next week, there'll be the same issues all over again. That's when I find it difficult to get up each morning, head out to these sites, and keep motivated to do what I do, no matter how much a manager or a politician in an office maintains that we're a positive force for society.

Contour lines

Close-up of the bark on a mature sycamore... nature creates sculptures, textures and colours that artists can only dream of.