Cherry wood

Trees have come to fascinate us. Across the garden from the kitchen door is a large beech tree, probably as old as the house, fifty feet tall, an astonishing display last autumn of reds and gold leaves. Nothing special about it, nothing out of the ordinary, but a magnificently ordinary tree. I have become more aware of trees since we moved here. A long-held dream is to work with wood, to make furniture; Herefordshire is thickly wooded and there seem to be many courses to learn these skills and produce chairs and tables. I have one or two tools that belonged to my grandfather, and cherish the thought of sharpening them and using them again. This is on a par with learning the Welsh my other grandfather spoke; and probably as unlikely.

The very last piece of cherry wood is a thick branch, maybe two inches thick, which we have been drying for a week or so. By chance I cleaned a band around the middle, and beneath the city-lichen-moss was the deep polished ruby red of the bark. The contrast was sharp, intense and yet the colours were subtle and quiet. An ordinary piece of wood came alive, became a thing of great beauty almost too good to burn, as many of the oak firewood pieces are.

A grove of polished young cherry trees would be very attractive, in a minimalist Japanese way. This view of trees, ornate, even manicured, bears no relation to the ancient woods we saw this morning; but like people our ideas of beauty change depending on age.