How to read a tree
by Tristan Gooley

From my window I can see two beeches, both of which are well established and mature. They’re by the side of a quiet road, which has many trees along its route, opposite a high school, and near woodlands. One of them is taller than the other and the shorter one has a trunk that’s forked low down. I’m interested in that forked trunk. Having just finished Tristan Gooley’s How to Read a Tree, I can’t wait to try out my new skills in reading the language of trees, and I feel the need to have a go at interpreting this one.

A tree with a fork is like a person with a limp. The tree can grow up, but structurally it isn’t a great idea. It creates an architectural weakness, which is why the tallest trees don’t have forks, as is the case, I note, with the forked beech’s taller companion. Trees have what they call an apical bud at the top, which is like the guiding eye and keeps the tree straight. A tree with a fork must have lost its top at some time in its history. It may have been decapitated by deer or squirrels, or had its top blown off by a storm. Looking around at the beech’s surroundings I see that it’s twice the height of the school that it towers over. I know that the school celebrated its fiftieth birthday recently, so I think that, probably, the beech is older than the school, and was there first. Perhaps it was damaged by humans in the construction of the school.

At any rate, there was a calamity, and the beech lost its top, but its trunk survived. Two new buds started grew, and two new trunks rose out of the original one, creating this sub optimal forked design. It’s still a good tree. It looks healthy, gets plenty of sun and has reached a good height. Like humans, few trees make it to adulthood without getting a bit messed up on the way.

Trees are legends and each has its story. Many are tales of hardship; all are stories of survival. When you can see what trees are saying, the woods are a noisy place. There’s a reason for every branch. Putting on my new tree reading eyes, I walked round Sanquhar woods on a sunny February morning. I took the path around the pond which has a steep south facing slope on one side. The Scots pines on this slope have needles only on the south side as they’re entirely in shade from the north. They lean out over the path, daring each other to reach further, to drink in more delicious sun. Forests are battlegrounds for sunlight.

On the sides of Sanquhar woods, I spot clusters of silver birch. Birch are the pioneers of the forest, the first to colonise new ground. When bigger, bolder trees move in, the birches are confined to the sides, easing the transition from forest to field. Deeper into the woods, the Scots pine take over and they mean business. Their bare trunks rise straight up to the sky and explode into plumes of needles at the top. Douglas fir, with Christmas tree skirts all the way to the ground, intersperse the pine, and in some places take over the land completely. Where pines are dominant, light gets through to the ground, which is covered in moss, bracken, foliage and the odd holly tree. Where the fir rule, the woods turn shady and the ground is smooth, covered only in cones and pine needles. The fir won’t let anything else grow.

Trees can be selfish. According to Tristan, trees will poison the ground around them to stop other plants growing. They’ll block out the light so that new shoots are starved. Nature can be a strict parent.