It feels that spring is upon us. Warm weather around Easter, has seen a positive reaction from seedlings and early perennials in the longer days and strengthening sun.

I fund myself looking to the trees around me for the tell tale signs of spring.  The Ash and the Oak on our lane are full of incoming migrants, such as chiffchaffs and blackcaps, filling the air with their distinctive songs.   I suspect the Ash is coming into leaf first, which is unusual, and suggests the prospect of a wet summer, if the old rhyme is to be believed:

‘Oak before Ash: in for a splash.  Ash before Oak: in for a soak.’

We had scaffolding on the house last week to enable some work on the roof. Standing next to the chimney piece, I realised just how tall the oak is.  A wet summer, or slightly leaky roof, would be the least of our problems if any sizeable part of this tree fell our way. 

But it is a feature of our lives just as other trees are. The Amelanchier, which we transplanted to the Spursy border a few years ago, has been in delicate blossom these past couple of weeks.  It reminds me of the Old Place, as my mother particularly valued it.  In contrast, I have never been a big fan of a Magnolia: the blossom is too blousy for my taste and, when fallen, it litters the place like discarded fish and chip wrappers.  The Amelanchier is far more delicate and refined. 

The Whitebeam that we placed in the back garden also reminds me of the Old Place.  My father bought a White beam soon after my mother died.  At this time of year, the soft silvery green buds anticipate the bright green leaves about to burst forth and delicate white flowers. It almost shimmers in the spring sunshine.

Elsewhere in the Spursy border, the three silver Birches are a major feature.  They are currently covered in catkins, which contrast pleasingly with the shiny bark.  They remind me of childhood trips to my grandmother on Ashdown Forest in Sussex. 

I think we are drawn to trees by their longevity. Most of them will be here long after we have passed. I often take pictures of them and none is more photographed and studied by us (and others) than the Tulip Tree (Liriodendron Tulipifera) down the road on Crawford Lane.  Commonly known as Josh’s Tree, it was planted in his memory by members of our village book group.  It is positioned on one of the main thoroughfares for dog walkers and has plenty of space to grow to its ultimate height of more than twenty metres.

A group of us dug it in during lockdown in a comical example of failed social distancing, which ended with the passing of an iPhone from unwashed hand to unwashed hand before one of us worked out how to take a selfie. I am pleased to report that we all survived the experience – particularly the tree.

Hardly a month or even a week goes by without me taking a photograph of it and thinking of my boy.  The tree will not actually flower for at least another ten or fifteen years, but just the shape and colour of the emergent leaves in the spring are a joy to behold, like small candles on the tree’s elegant arms.

Like the Oak and the Ash, it bears witness to our lives and, in a small way, the Tulip Tree will retain memories of our boy.