Trees of Hampstead Heath
In pagan times it was customary to attribute human emotions to animals, indeed every aspect of the natural world. Even today foxes are clever, snakes are evil, lions are brave and owls are wise. Steady as a rock or heart of oak, it makes no difference. Trees are no exception, indeed we have engaged them in an anthropomorphic embrace on the deepest of levels and from the most ancient of times. In Druidic, Celtic and Viking lore the sacred groves of oak, ash, holly, yew, birch and sycamore were revered as sources of tryst, meditation and ceremonial. We know we all must die one day, but until then we carve our initials on these silent witnesses to the brief span of our own terrestrial lives and hope – fingers crossed – they will outlive us. In these images of some of the more ancient oaks to be found on Hampstead Heath, in North London, we note the loneliness, the drama and the turmoil embedded in their forms. Some are in full flight, while others are rooted to the spot. Others implore us for remission, their arms spread wide, carbuncled, pockmarked, arthritic, horrified veterans of endurance in the eternal race for life. If these ancient trees could only speak what might they tell us of Rome and Carthage, the Armada and Jerusalem, the English Civil War and the Industrial Revolution. They witnessed our arrival in this world. We grew up under their spreading branches. We climbed them when we tried to reach the sky. We reclined under their sheltering canopy. We fought each other in their shadowed woodlands and sunlit glades. Our parents died among their fallen leaves. We buried our friends among their penetrating roots. We cut them down for garden furniture. They are the eternal witnesses to all that brought us to this moment in our lives. We ourselves will follow in their wake.
