Open Writing

These days I find my mind wandering back to the past, to the days when our children were tiny and so full of life. The happy times, the times worth remembering and keeping, and so I will tell you a story about our old horse chestnut tree.

It was a huge thing and grew in the back corner of our walled garden in Scotland. Picture the big old Victorian houses of the Highlands and their walled gardens and you will see what I am talking about. Ours was the pharmacy and our neighbour, who shared the wall, was the bank manager.

Both the bank manager’s wife, Mrs. Maclean, and I loved our gardens and “laboured mightily” in them, taking great pride in our herbaceous borders, our fruit trees and bushes and guarding our rose borders, with an eye on the Lairg show, for we both entered the “Floral Art” and “Best Blooms” sections. Yes it was the rural life of a small village, busy with village events and everyone knowing everyone else. The same was true for the children. There was no, “whose going to play in my gang,” for there was only one gang, except for the privileged few, who went off to boarding school so didn’t really belong. Were they privileged?

For many years, as our children grew out of toddler stage and joined school, gradually advancing to fishing and swimming and taking the boat out on the loch, then on to sledging and skiing, the centre of attraction was the horse chestnut tree, until one day…..

Put yourself into Enid Blyton’s “Faraway Tree” country and think of our tree. It was a mighty tree with huge thick branches and lots of footholds and handholds, great for climbing, particularly if you were young and full of energy.

My son was about seven when the tree became the centre of attraction for the village children. After school, along with his five year old sister, I would watch them racing home down the road together. These were the days when youngsters didn’t have mum picking them up. These were the days of bikes and feet, and home didn’t mean a quick dive into the bedroom to sit in front of the computer screen. No, these were the days when large pieces of cake and glasses of milk were needed to sustain energy levels; these weren’t the days of the overweight and overindulged children.

Usually we had time for a long chat and a walk to the dam or up through the wood, where the carved tree was, every child somehow managed to engrave their name somewhere on the tree. But at this particular time in their life they didn’t have time. Reluctantly they handed over their school books for me to check and to see what homework they had. Highland schools believed in homework. As fast as they could they would down their milk and cake and tell me of the day’s happenings, then straight out of the door. Something was afoot and moreover it was afoot for all the other children in the village. The back field was THE PLACE to be.

Why the back field? Somehow the level between the garden and the top of the wall was very different to the level between the back field and the top of the wall. From the back field you could get into the tree, and what a tree. As toddlers, my two, within the confines of the garden wall, had gathered conkers, splitting the green, thorny skins and extracting the brown shining nuts to harden in the oven, then thread with string, in the hope that they would become oners or twoers. Do children play conkers any more?

But now, via the back field, they were able climb the “Faraway Tree.” What a tree to climb, branches to sit on or hang from, nooks and crannies to doze off in or eat bars of chocolate and tell stories or just wonder about things which young children wonder about. The tree was big and strong and there was room for all. It was a wonderland. I never saw Moonface or dodged Dame Wash-a-lot’s water as it rushed down the trunk, nor did I hear the “Wisha, wisha, wisha” which the tree used to whisper in the book, but it was a cosmos of its own, a children’s wonderland and, no doubt, in their minds, the tree was full of interesting characters and each branch had its own story to tell.

But as with all young children, their minds moved on, the tree had potential. A tree house! Yes, that’s the thing. Gradually a platform of wood appeared, about halfway up, and Mrs. Maclean and I watched with interest. What next? All manner of things vanished into the branches. Excited voices called out “Is this any good, Andrew?” and old car seats were hoisted up. Scraped knees needed bandaging and “Where did that bit of carpet or old cushion go?”

The tree grew in stature and the leaves and branches hid the activities of the over-active youth. Mrs. Maclean and I wondered how many floors the house would have before they had finished, but we didn’t worry too much as the kids were safe and having great fun expending the energy of youth. They would return tired, hungry and ready for tea, a bath, a story and bed.

The tree could tell many tales, for it still stands today, bigger than it was of course, but on one fateful day the activities of the local youth came to an end.

There had been a lull in excitement for some time. The tree house didn’t need anything else. They had finished it. It had taken several months of furiously hard work to reach this point. It lacked only one thing – a fireplace.

As the flames rose from the tree and the local fireman rushed round to put them out, Mrs. Maclean and I decided that, sadly, the tree house had had its day.

The tree came to no harm it seemed to flourish even more, no doubt having enjoyed the company of the young folk. I wonder what stories those young folk now tell their children about the back field and the old chestnut tree.