“The king and queen of the forest demand that I stop and bow down”
OPINION
When did I stop believing that trees could walk and talk? There was one tree, at a guess a young Nandi flame tree, or sebetaiyet as it was locally known, that was so tall it seemed to brush the sky. A bougainvillea had scrambled right the way over it and draped the entire canopy in a cape of leaves, thorns and orange-pink flowers.
Korongo mfuko shingo (literally bag-necked storks in Swahili), or marabou storks, perched on its branches and gazed down impassively. I would stare back, wide-eyed and convinced that the tree could, at any moment, pull up its roots and lurch towards me with giant, earth-shaking strides. The caped tree with its crown of marabou storks scared me, but also had me wrapped in wonder.
Decades later, in a land far away, I’m preoccupied with more grown-up (and frankly more boring) concerns as I stride purposefully through a British woodland. It’s early summer and the forest feels busy. Blackbirds rustle in the undergrowth as a pair of treecreepers contact call overhead. Suddenly, my inner dialogue is interrupted and something stops me dead in my tracks. I stand stock-still, listening intently, looking for any movement. It’s not immediately obvious what has caught my attention, but my gaze is soon drawn upward by two tall Douglas firs. Sunlight flickers down as branches block my view to the very top of these towering beings. I imagine what it must be like up there for any nesting birds, maybe a buzzard family, with views right across the valley as they gently sway in the warm summer breeze.
I’m still held captive by the trees as my attention returns to the forest floor. It is only now that I notice the abrupt change on the ground. It’s as if the whole plant community, oak, beech and birch saplings, along with the ferns, grasses and brambles, have also been halted in their tracks.
An invisible border, beyond which they apparently dare not go, traces out the trees’ drip line – the outermost circumference of the trees’ canopies – where only a thick brown carpet of shed pine needles lies. I playfully imagine the pair of Douglas firs, like the king and queen of the forest, holding court and demanding that we all stop and bow down in awe of their regal splendour. I quickly talk myself out of this flight of fancy, but I’m also pleased that, despite my age and scientific training, I clearly still have a penchant for childhood animism.
