Trees.

 

In 2005, having scattered my father ashes on the island of Davaar in the mouth of Campbeltown harbour I decided to follow in his footsteps and take the ferry from Oban to the Outer Hebrides. During the summer of 2000 and at the age of eighty my father had visited the islands in his little Mercedes camper van, travelling from Barra up to the Butt of Ness. On June 24^th of that year his roaming took him as far as Garry beach and he spent the night at Traigh Mhor. Before leaving he stopped at the village shop and took a photo looking down to the peat stacks opposite.

 My father was not a good photographer, but what he captured in that image illustrates to me just how the landscape has changed over relatively few years. Historically the impression of the outer islands is one devoid of trees, and that apart from an area of woodland around Lews Castle the place is barren mountains, moorland and machair. An elderly neighbour informed me that when he was a boy the sycamore over the road from the shop and one up by the church were the only trees in Tolsta, and when driving into Stornoway the first and only tree was another sycamore at the Newmarket junction. Since then the tree beyond the church has gone, but there has been considerable if somewhat sporadic planting of conifers and deciduous trees throughout the island. Today the top end of Glen Tolsta has a mature stand of pines, although at the far end many of those have toppled with the north easterly gales. A later planting was almost entirely destroyed by fire during a dry summer when a portable barbeque was abandoned. Since then I’ve taken seedlings from the top side and planted them along with a mix of spruce and alders around my own home at 17 New Tolsta.

 My planting was inspired by Muriel and Andy King who 30 years ago planted a large amount of trees around their own croft house at No 13 as well as on the top side of Croft 15. When I first arrived here in 2006 the old white house and larger modern house on croft 14 were clearly visible, today only the dormer windows and roof of the white house remain visible. The far end of New Tolsta has become a little oasis of woodland before the vast open tract of moorland and in time my own planting of beach, birch and oak will help expand that. The visual aspect of these islands are changing with increasing speed, particularly with the building of massive houses. Gone are the days when ten children were raised in the dim smoky interior of a blackhouse or a two up two down croft house. Today houses that look to me more like a community village hall seem to sprout up overnight like mushrooms, demanding that sea view and dominating the horizon. My hope would be that in years to come some considered planting might soften their visual impact, meanwhile I will continue to plant trees, for surely a little shelter can please both man and beast.

When pushing my mother, then aged 93 in a wheelchair through a stand of fine beach trees she told me she’d spent most of her childhood climbing trees. I did the same, climbing as high as the branches would allow, but never told her. I thought my daring might frighten her and I would be grounded. In one particular section of woodland I could traverse from tree to tree like a chimpanzee never touching the ground. In later life when living in Brittany I would during the stormy winter months climb as high as I could into the old oak tree just to feel the twisting and creaking of branches beneath me. I cannot imagine a life that didn’t include the planting of trees. I’ve planted hundreds over the years; seen birds nest in them, gathered fruit from them, coppiced them, felled them for burning and building, as well as the making of furniture.

I will not live to see the trees I’ve planted here in New Tolsta reach anywhere near maturity, but the pleasure I derive from seeing their yearly growth is immense, and in my imagination I am once again walking beneath a fine stand of mixed woodland with limbs large enough to suspend a hammock that can cradle me.