THE FIRST TREE ON EARTH

The spells were vain
The hag returned
To the Queen in a sorrowful mood
Crying that witches have no power
Where there is Rowan tree wood.

When I took over the garden ten years ago, one of the first trees I planted was a rowan tree (Sorbus aucuparia). It wasn’t because of its witch repelling properties as related in the old Celtic ballad, but I’d seen many young rowan trees in our area and liked both its leaves and its red berries in late summer. It’s a perfect tree for a small garden, I think: robust (it even grows in Vardø in arctic Norway), not too big (mine has grown to three metres (ten feet) and will probably grow another three in the next ten years) and very colourful (it has a lovely creamy-white blossom in late spring). The crown is easy to shape, provides full shade, but is still light when seen from beneath.

Later, I have learned that the name ‘rowan’ comes from the Old Norse name for the tree, raun or rogn, and that it has been considered magical for thousands of years in the North. According to an ancient Finnish creation myth, the Earth was barren and devoid of plants when the goddess Rauni came down from heaven and took the form of a rowan tree from which, after it was struck by lightning, all plants and trees descend. Besides witches, it is said to offer protection against most mean-spirited ghouls as well as fire and storms. It should be excellent for bow making and protect against lightning when used as a walking stick.

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ROWAN TREE SLING

After all the rain we have had in August, the young rowan tree lost its grip in the wet soil during a gale. Overnight, it developed a lean of more than fifteen degrees. Fortunately, it was easy to push it back up. For support, I tied it to the old cherry tree, which, despite its frail appearance, is steady as a rock.

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SPANISH LACE



In the last week, the garden has become a virtual bird-zoo. The starlings are congregating in enormous flocks, flying low over the Wolf Sound in the evening. Last night, tens of thousands of them passed Calvesgarden in what looked like huge pieces of waving black lace. When they land in the big birch trees, they make a tremendous bells-like noise. From a distance, it sounds as if the trees were singing. After a few minutes, it suddenly stops and—swoosh—off they go in a commotion of fluttering feathers sounding like a giant sail flapping in the wind. The swallows whisk about the house in smaller flocks, diving under the crowns of the fruit trees at breakneck speed and then over the roof with all the bellies showing. Sometimes, my mind takes off with the birds, wondering how the sense of joy comes about with such ease.

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FAVOURITE THICKET

In the front, if you look closely, you may be able to spot the top of a miniature beech tree just left of the dusty-red spiraea hedge. Behind it, from left to right, you see a hawthorn, a lilac hedge, a witch hazel standing in front of a buddleia tree and, in the background, a wild cherry tree.