Open Writing

The house that I was born and grew up in is situated in a typical South Yorkshire suburb. What distinguishes the place from so many others of its kind is that the back gardens on one side of what was my street lead out to an ancient wood.

Ecclesall Woods dates back in written records to the 1600’s, but the earliest historical mention of this area refers to the submission of the Northumbrian army to Egbert of Wessex at the nearby hamlet of Dore, on the fringes of the wood, in 829.

At one time the woods were part of Barnsdale Forest that, together with Sherwood Forest, made up what was the refuge of the legendary Robin Hood and his gang. The name Ecclesall, derives either from Heeksel-Hallr meaning the witches' hill, or Eccles halh, church hill. It’s not mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086, because at that time Ecclesall was part of the manor of Hallam. The name is first found about 150 years later as that of Sir Ralphus De Ecclesall.

The 350 acre wood was deeded to the city of Sheffield in the early 1900’s, and was to some extent ignored and neglected from the 1950’s on. But in recent times there has been renewed interest in both restoring it to attract visitors, and to conduct archealogical research into its rather mysterious history. Early discoveries from this work have already revealed prehistoric carved stones, and some Roman remains.

As a preteen child in the 1940’s I knew nothing of this history, but I had a strong sense that the woods were steeped in mystery and ancient occupation. The most obvious sign was the grave of a charcoal collier who burned to death in his cabin in 1786. But there were other, less easily understood features: strange pits that had no apparent purpose, and ridged tracks that could only have been made by the frequent passage of horse drawn carts.

And then there were the aged, towering beech trees, which had carvings in their bark that dated back centuries. The trunks of these trees were six or eight feet in diameter, and the lower branches were as thick as a man’s torso. Despite the eery fecundity of the woods, it held no fear for me. By the time I was ten or eleven, I knew every corner intimately and most of the trees. For me, the woods were a haven; more of a home from home even.

Wedged in the cleft of a branch, fifty or more feet up in one of my favorite beeches, I could forget my overcrowded and tense home life. I could see for miles, and when the leaves were on, no one could see me. It wasn’t that I was a solitary child by choice; several neighborhood friends and I often payed together in the woods, but there were times when solitude, and no sound other than the soft rustle of the silky leaves, provided restoration when I needed it.

For my childhood friends and I, the woods provided the perfect playground. Our parents knew where we were, or thought they did, and had none of the concerns about our vulnerability to human predaters that parents have today. The worst that could happen was that one of us might have fallen from the top of a tree and broken his neck. But I don’t think that ever occurred to them. In the spring we gathered bluebells, and later, pussy willow for Easter, and holly and mistletoe for Christmas.

The woods offered a plentifull selection of scenarios for play. On one day we’d be fighting the “Battle of the Bulge,” alongside the Allied battalions, and on another we’d build a den by laying branches over one of the mysterious pits; thatching them with grass sod and ferns, much as I imagine our prehistoric forebears did. When that palled, we could dam up a stream and gather some frog spawn from one of the small ponds, waiting impatiently for them to turn into frogs. A favorite passtime was to place an inverted jam jar over one of the stagnant ponds, and poke underneath it with a stick to release methane into the jar. On a lucky day, one of us would have been able to sneak some matches out of the house so we could ignite the methane.

Our only enemies were the woodsmen, who disapproved of our den making and stream damming. They spent most of their time at the sawmill, which was located a couple of miles from where we normally played. But periodically they would foray out to check for fallen trees after a storm, or in the spring to rake up the rotted leaves to be turned into mulch for the many public gardens in the City. They were burly, taciturn men, made so by the work they did and their semi-isolation from other folk.

If we detected their presence before they saw us, it became a game of cat and mouse. We had learned enough woodcraft to be able to move silently and to remain hidden in the tall bracken. But occasionally one of us would snigger or cough, or step on a dry twig and give the game away. Then all we could do was run pell-mell and scatter, eventually going to ground again to catch our breath, hoping our pounding hearts couldn’t be heard by “the enemy.” They never caught us, but would stand and yell furiously, directing their anger at places we were not.

We didn’t outgrow the woods as we got older. In my teens and twenties I still gathered the pussy willow and the holly and mistletoe for my mother, but I had learned by then that bluebells wilt quickly after they are picked, so I left them in peace. I still gathered logs for my parent’s fire, and my onetime playmates and I would jog along the paths in the evening for exercise. Later I would bring my own children to pick bilberries or gather chestnuts.

My last visit was when I was almost 60 years old, and had returned to England for my mother’s funeral. After the ceremony, I was inevitably drawn to the woods, and to my old friend the beech tree. I didn’t attempt to climb it, but seated myself on one of the massive roots with my back propped against the trunk. Just as in years before, it was a quiet place to reflect on the woman who had born and raised me, and like the woods, had shaped me in good and important ways.

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