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| Silver birches |
Our section of Southampton Common had been used as a training ground and assembly area prior to D-Day and it comprised of open heathland with bracken, gorse and broom that was being invaded by young birches. Fires were frequent and so it remained basically a heath with no large trees except along the roadside. That’s where we would go birch toppling.
I suppose at this point I should make a Health and Safety Statement. Tree climbing is a risky business and you will fall out of a tree at some point if you do it on a daily basis. If, like me, you are over 70 years old, I’d say it’s time to stop. Having said that, climbing the same tree over and over again in the company of someone like my younger brother (who is brilliant it) gets less risky as your skills improve. We would practice jumping from a couple of meters up, learning to roll like parachutists.
Young birches tend to grow in drifts downwind of the parent trees. The seeds are tiny but they can overtake a few acres very quickly. A lot of the trees will be the same age. We found a young birch-wood in a tussocky swamp that had avoided any recent fires. The trees were about 8 metres high but very thin. The game we invented was to climb as high as possible, grip the trunk firmly and then get it to swing by throwing your weight back and forth. Eventually, if you were lucky, the tree would bend over and bring you gently to the ground, or perhaps nearly to the ground. If you were unlucky the trunk would snap off or split somewhere below your feet and your descent would be governed entirely by Newton's law of gravity. That’s to say, you accelerated towards the spider-filled tussock grass below, possibly still holding a length of tree.
Apart from the obvious hazards, the thing against arch toppling is the damage it does to the trees. Even the ones that were not broken had trouble straightening themselves. Looking at the destruction we caused we felt ashamed and moved on to dam up the stream instead creating yr own beaver ponds. I have seen similar damage in Maine and in Scotland where rain has frozen on impact and formed a heavy burden of ice in the branches. Almost every birch in a forest can lose its top in this way during one night of freak weather. The weight of ice also brings down power cables and phone lines.
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| Robert Frost's house in the woods of New Hampshire |
I was reminiscing about this with my wife and she said "Oh Yes, there's a poem about it. I think it's by Robert Frost." And so there is! It's simply called "Birches".
"When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."
Front view of Robert Frost's home.
We have been to his wooden house in New Hampshire and it's still surrounded by mixed woods with a lot of birch.
