Boughing to Time: Old Knobbley, Furze Hill Wood, Mistley

It was that time of year again, my birthday. As has started to become customary, I received a phone call from ‘M’ enquiring if I would like to visit somewhere. Not being one to pass up an opportunity, it was a yes. She suggested a visit to Aldeburgh or a return visit to Sutton Hoo . Last year we were lucky, all around my birthday the weather had been dreadful, but on the day, it was blue skies and warm sunshine. This year it was to be the total opposite. The day was dark with threatening skies, strong wind and heavy driving rain. Not the sort of day to travel miles in a car, arrive at your destination, get soaked, and have a very long drive home in sopping clothes.

So, I made a suggestion, instead of driving for miles how about going just a few miles up the road to look at a tree? ‘M’ gave me the ‘look’, then, the ‘smile’, then, ‘it’s your birthday, if you want to look at a tree of course you can’. So that was agreed, perhaps agreed is a bit strong, but we had a plan.

We dashed to the car as the rain was coming down heavily, when we moved off, I explained where we were going, and what made this tree special. Our destination was Furze Hill Wood on the edge of Mistley village, approximately a 20-minute drive. The wood consists mostly of trees that are about 70 years old, but amongst these are ancient oaks, these are a few hundred years old. Our pilgrimage was for one particular tree, known affectionally as Old Knobbley. It is thought to be about 800 years old, so about the time King John was signing the Magna Carter. It has a circumference of about 31 feet, more than twice its height. As can be imagined a tree of this age has acquired many scars over the centuries, which have healed over creating many Burrs, these lumps and bumps giving it its name. There is also fire damage, where some moron probably thought it funny to try to set it alight. Destroying trees seems to be an unfortunate sign of the times.

  There is also folklore attached to the tree. It is said that in the 17^th century, local women accused of witchcraft by the notorious Mathew Hopkins, the self-appointed Witchfinder General, who also came from Mistley, hid amongst the branches for protection. I very much doubt there is any truth to this, but it does add another layer of mystery for me. It has always fascinated me how we still fear these vulnerable women, but not those in positions of power that killed them.

We arrived at the Community Centre car park, ready to begin our journey, it was still raining hard. This is when we realised neither of us had wellingtons or an umbrella. I assured ‘M’ it would be worth the discomfort. No words passed between us but the look on her face, certainly hinted that she was not totally convinced. We set off in the rain.  

We walked down an unmade track, wide enough to get a car down, used as access for the houses on the other side of the wood. The edge of the wood had a fence running to the side, we came to an entrance but there was no signage to make it clear this was the entrance to the tree. We walked on a short distance; it became obvious the one we had passed was the entrance. We turned back, and entered the wood, the rain was becoming heavier. Once we were in the wood there were no clearly marked paths to our destination. So, with no clear route, we relied on ‘feel’, to find our way. It was very easy to see the old oaks amongst the other trees they have a…. well, a certain dignity. The oak tree has always been deeply symbolic within English folklore. Its connections with the Druids, the Green Man, a symbol of rebirth and regeneration.  Also, as a symbol of strength, wisdom and longevity, its bark is also said to have healing properties.

Furze Hill is a small wood, but once inside all sense of scale is forgotten. The only sound was bird song and the rain striking the green canopy, which thankfully was keeping some of the rain off. As we wandered, enjoying the company of the trees, without any conscious thought of direction, it happened, we walked up a slight incline and there before us in a small clearing was Old Knobbley.

The first thing that struck me was that it was nothing like any tree I had ever seen before. The pictures and descriptions don’t prepare you for this first sight; or indeed for the atmosphere in this small clearing. It has two large boughs reaching out from each side of the trunk, almost to embrace you, or even time and space itself. The clearing was strangely quiet, it could be because the rain is not striking the canopy, and the birds are further away, but this felt, different. As we moved closer, the signs of age, damage and disease became apparent. It had the look of an old warrior, who had seen too much. This is understandable when you imagine all the social changes, wars, and destruction of the natural environment it has witnessed over its long life. You almost have to remind yourself that this isn’t some ancient manufactured artifact, but a living entity.

As we walked around the clearing, absorbing the atmosphere and taking pictures, I continued to be drawn back to the tree, to touch it, I noticed ‘M’ doing this as well. It was some time before we noticed it had stopped raining, or how wet we had become.

Standing in the clearing it feels as if you have been drawn into a space between time. You lose your sense of now, its pressures and responsibilities. It’s an other-worldly feeling; you are imbued with a sense of peace and calm. Perhaps its just being in nature, but it makes it no less a mystical experience. I didn’t mention these feelings to ‘M’, as she thinks I am mad at the best of times.

It was time to leave; we got back to the car and set of on the return journey, it had started raining again. I asked ‘M’ had she enjoyed herself? I must admit I was not expecting a positive review: ‘actually I did, but I had really strange feelings there, not horrible, just strange’.

Photographs by ‘M’

#Folklore #OakTree #Nature #OldKnobbley #Mistley #newblogpost