Cranbrook, Kent: Somewhere in the copse is a glimmering birch tree – we call her the Lady of the Woods – which has a sweet gift to bearWe stand on the edge of the copse, light dwindling, gazing up at a solemn procession of rooks moving to their winter roost. At their flanks, oblivious to the mood, jackdaws jink and swoop, playful against a ruddy sky. They sense the change; the stirring which is easier felt than observed. The subtle signs of spring are here though: the mauve alder catkins, the swelling pink buds of hawthorn, a single primrose, and something different in the air. Winter has no scent, but a warm day today has conjured the smell of burgeoning life.My reverie is broken by a stick poking my backside. My youngest daughter is bored and requests we resume our purpose: to visit the Lady of the Woods. The Lady isn’t hard to find; she’s a splendid birch tree, a towering pale column in the gathering gloom, and, of the many gifts she offers, we are hoping to collect some sap. Her intrinsic elegance – alluded to by the colloquial name we have for her – belies a tenacious nature, that of a pioneer, and a hardy interloper among established forestry. My accompanying daughter’s middle name is Betula, Latin for birch. We knew that, born last, she would grow fast and jostle for space alongside her brother and sister. Continue reading...