Black-a-Tor Copse, Dartmoor, Devon (Duchy of Cornwall/English Nature): photo © Jean Williamson

Little acorns do not always grow into mighty oaks, as these gnarled and stunted examples show. Along with the more widely known Wistman’s Wood, Black-a-Tor is an ancient, high altitude oak wood with a fine collection of lichens, mosses and boulders. Their growth held back and distorted by the rigours of the climate and the paucity of the soil, these oaks are durable and persistent, their fantastic forms seeming to dance in the sunlight despite forever tripping over the granite at their feet. The anthropomorphic nature of trees, and their palpable and abundant energy, has led them to figure strongly in the myths, legends, symbolism and religious beliefs of humankind through the ages.

Hedgerow Oak, Llangynhafal, Denbighshire: photo © Jean Williamson

A symbol of strength, protection, fertility and endurance, the oak has been regarded as the tree sacred to the gods of thunder, lightning and the sky, such as the Greco-Roman Zeus (Jupiter) and the Teutonic/Scandinavian Donar (Thor). In AD723, an ancient oak venerated by tribes in northern Germany was felled by the Anglo-Saxon missionary St Boniface. As no lightening bolt or hammer was thrown at the impetuous saint’s head by Thor in response to the desecration of his sacred tree, the local people agreed to be baptized, and Boniface made a Christian chapel of the pagan oak. This fine specimen makes it easy to see why trees were considered excellent symbols of the ‘axis mundi’ - a path of communication between underworld and sky. The strong roots reach down into the primal waters, the trunk traverses the world of man and time, branches and canopy dissolve into the realm of heaven and eternity. Hedgerow trees were prized for shipbuilding, their naturally formed shapes and curves being specially suitable for ‘hooks’ and ‘knees’. For the time being, this mighty protector is doing its best to hold together an eroding earth bank above a narrow sunken lane.

Ash and Moon, Penisarwaun, Gwynedd: photo © Mick Sharp

Ash is the king of firewood, billiard cues, shafts and handles; its black buds and bare, elegant branches scribe messages across the sky. Here they catch the last warmth of the sun as the chill moon seems to draw them closer. Tides rise and fall at the moon’s command, and the ‘lunar planting’ system makes use of her cyclical effect on plants. As the gravitational pull of a waxing moon increases, moisture rises in the soil and the earth’s crust is pulled outwards by up to 0.3 of a metre: seeds sown at a full moon have been shown to absorb more water. In Norse mythology a huge, magically sustained tree stands at the cosmic centre surrounded by nine worlds. Generally considered to be an ash, Yggdrasil is that ‘windy tree’ on which Odin (Woden) hung for ‘nine long nights’, wounded by his own spear, sacrificing himself to himself to gain, through ordeal, the wisdom that would give him power in the nine worlds.

Ancient Yews, Kingley Vale, West Sussex (English Nature): photo © Mick Sharp

A few scholars interpret Yggdrasil as a yew tree, but the yew’s evergreen longevity is a more suitable symbol for everlasting life, rather than cyclical rebirth which is better exemplified by an ash. The Kingley Vale nature reserve contains one of the finest yew forests in western Europe. The largest trees, grouped at the foot of the valley, include a central stand of twenty or so known as the ‘Druids’ Trees’. Recent research suggests they may well date back to pre-Christian times, but local legend says they were planted to commemorate a battle fought and won against the Vikings. Duality and unity: harmonious siblings or a divided self, an intricate duet or constant struggle for space and light?

Prunus ‘Jo-nioi’, Penisarwaun, Gwynedd: photo © Jean Williamson

Beautiful, delicate and short-lived, the blossom of the cherry has become a national metaphor for the ephemeral nature of life. In Japan, petals like these prompt much poetry and are celebrated in their annual blossom festival. On a warm, still day the subtle perfume of this scented cherry adds an extra dimension to the blossom season and makes the passing of beauty all the more keenly felt.

Rowan Tree, Nant Bochlwyd, Gwynedd (National Trust): photo © Jean Williamson

This rowan has survived where most trees fail. Its alternative name of mountain ash reflects it ability to thrive at higher altitudes than other native trees, and to grow at a variety of angles from rock faces. Seed dropped by a passing bird has sprouted in the relative shelter of a rock crevice and, miraculously, the sapling has been missed or ignored by its enemies the sheep. The bleak landscape and frozen stream demonstrate the harsh conditions this tree has to endure. The rowan has long been connected with witchcraft and may even have derived its name from the same Norse word as rune, meaning ‘a charm’ or ‘magic sign’. Charms were made from bent twigs of rowan, and the trees planted in churchyards and beside houses to ward off witches. On May Day sprays of leaves were hung above doorways to ward off evil: humans, farm animals, water sources and the dead in their graves could all be protected through the use of rowan.

Rowan Tree, Moel Famau (Denbighshire County Council): photo © Mick Sharp

This merry-go-round of berries has been pruned to spinning-top perfection by grazing cattle taking the opportunity to look up and browse for a change. Their impromptu topiary has created a strikingly formal shape in a natural setting. Rich in vitamin C, the berries were once made into a syrup to prevent scurvy and they make a good jelly to go with game. Redwings, thrushes and fieldfares used to be lured into bird-catchers’ traps by the berries’ red promises.

Merton Worcester Apples, Penisarwaun, Gwynedd: photo © Jean Williamson

In Genesis, it is the serpent’s promise to Eve that she and Adam would have their eyes opened, and ‘be as gods’ if they ate of ‘the tree of the knowledge of good and evil’. This is against their Creator’s express instructions and He expels them from the Garden of Eden for becoming ‘wise’. God sets cherubim and ‘a flaming sword which turned every way’ to prevent them returning to the earthly paradise and attaining immortality from the ‘tree of life’ which was ‘also in the midst of the garden’. Although not specified in the Bible, in art it is usual to represent the tree of knowledge as a fig, vine or, more often, an apple. The serpent - a four-legged lizard or part-human - stands beside the tree, or twines around it. The biblical serpent personifies evil - guile, temptation - but in other traditions stands for fertility, wisdom and the power to heal, just as the tree is used as a female symbol of the earth’s seasonal rebirth. In the rites of the ancient near eastern fertility goddess Ishtar/Astarte, cyclical renewal was represented by a snake encircling a tree-trunk. King Solomon himself had his heart turned to the worship of Astarte (Ashtoreth) by his ‘seven hundred wives’ (1 Kings 11.1-5). On the slopes of Mount Atlas, the serpent Ladon wound around the golden apple tree in the garden of the Hesperides: the ‘daughters of evening’. Hercules slew the guardian snake, and stole the apples of immortality.

Alder Tree, Thundry Meadows, Elstead (Surrey Wildlife Trust): photo © Jean Williamson

That the wood of freshly cut alder becomes suffused with a blood-orange blush, gave rise to the ancient belief that the tree was the embodiment of a malign spirit which was bleeding. Alders are most often found in association with rivers and streams, or water seeping and moving below the soil. Alder can be a good indicator of land liable to flooding: its seeds are carried by the water and take root at the margins of the flood. Found singly, or forming thin strips beside streams passing through other woodland, alders also form their own stands or woodland called ‘carrs’. They can grow and survive in standing water, and often colonize the boggy areas left behind by the meanders and changing course of a river. Alder coppices well but makes poor firewood, does not grow large enough for good timber and it rots easily. But it lasts almost indefinitely underwater so is perfect for piles, sluice gates and the like. It was also traditionally used for the soles of clogs, and for objects turned on a lathe. In medieval times, its long, light, straight poles were used for temporary carpentry and scaffolding. Charcoal made from alder wood was the preferred additive (15%) for gunpowder which reached its manufacturing peak in Britain during the Napoleonic Wars. Between 1809 and 1815, a yearly average of 855 tons was produced by the Royal Gunpowder Factory at Waltham Abbey in Essex. Swollen by heavy rain, the River Wey is about to overflow its banks and enrich the water meadows with its store of nutrients. The alder is helping to stabilize the river bank, but it may eventually be undermined and swept away while the river carries a new seed to its growing place.

Beech Tree, Wayland’s Smithy, Oxfordshire (English Heritage/National Trust): photo © Jean Williamson

According to Oliver Rackham (‘Ancient Woodland’), ‘Beech is an opportunistic tree: it comes and goes in response to unusual events.’ Present in southern England since at least the Mesolithic period some 9,000 years ago, the natural spread of beech in Britain has been slow, and it is particularly susceptible to being killed by summer droughts. Unlike oak it will not colonize open ground, needing the shelter of other bushes and trees but, once established, its massive, many-branched dome will shade out and kill other plants and trees including the oak. Dependent on a sequence of very particular weather conditions, the production of beech seeds or ‘mast’ is erratic: a tree needs to be 60 years old to produce good seeds and there is often a gap of 12 years or more between decent crops. Beech made particular advances in the famous ‘mast year’ of 1922 when prodigious amounts of the triangular nutlets germinated in neglected farmland. The natural distribution of beech is still quite limited and much of what we see has been planted and carefully managed. It can be a beautiful landscape tree, particularly in the distinctive ‘hangers’ on steep-sided hills in southern England (notably the Chilterns, Hampshire and the South Downs) and circular ‘clumps’ planted on hilltops and around ancient monuments. This example is one of a group towering over Wayland’s Smithy long barrow beside the Oxfordshire Ridgeway. Its smooth, grey skin has attracted the attention of generations of arboreal tattooists and lovesick graffitists.

Beech Tree, Strata Florida, Ceredigion (Church in Wales): photo © Jean Williamson

Perhaps because of the striking contrast between the periodic heavy nut crops and the more usual leaner years in between, the beech tree is regarded as a symbol of prosperity. Pigs feeding on the beech mast grow fat in good years, and, by breaking up the thick, acid humus or ‘mor’ formed beneath the trees, enable some of the seeds they do not eat to take root. Woods such as Burnham Beeches (Buckinghamshire) were managed as woodland pasture, the branches periodically pollarded at a height of 2-3 metres to provide firewood and winter fodder while allowing cattle, pigs and goats to graze beneath. Other beeches were coppiced to provide a regular supply of wood - which kept the trees in check and prolonged their lives - or allowed to form one of those rather unnerving mature beech woods where the trees are evenly spaced and little else grows. As well as feeding domestic fires, billets of beech were used to fuel the furnaces for making glass and iron. Beech wood splits easily along its fine grain, and is suitable for general turnery. As it is strong, easy to work, can be bent to shape after treatment and will stain and polish well, it is ideal for making furniture and chairs. I used to make all kinds of play structures and vehicles using a travelling rug and my grandmother’s Thonet bentwood chairs. Having thrown down a russet carpet of leaves, and cast a golden curtain of autumn foliage across St Mary’s, this venerable beech seems inclined to drape itself over the church.

Ampleforth Sunset, North Yorkshire: photo © Jean Williamson

Four trees on a field boundary seem to march downhill as an October sun goes to bed and ribbons of cloud hurry home. Bold, abstract strokes in a watercolour landscape, these ‘dormant’ trees are quietly passing the accumulated strength of summer into buds ready for their spring awakening.