The Man Who Planted Trees is a novel by the French author Jean Giono. The book tells the story of a man, a shepherd actually, who over a period of four decades successfully re-forests a desolate valley in the foothills of the French Alps. By the end of the story, which is translated into many different languages, the valley returns to vibrancy and the humans living there are all happy. Just like us, trees thrive when they live in communities.
I remembered the story, which I read many years ago, upon our walks through Spon End. The neighbourhood homes many trees, some still standing while others only shadowing their past presence: the 150-year old Black Mulberry Tree in the IKEA park, the proudly posturing Walnut Tree at the start of Spon Street, the anonymous Ash Tree that neighbours the Oasis, the fallen, but never forgotten, Conker Tree in Kyla and Judith’s interview. They, among many others, appear in our stories, but, just like the animals of Spon End, their presence is felt most often in the echoes of other, more foregrounding narratives. Often, I say, because they do not always play a secondary role. Indeed, at times trees seem to hide in our stories, sometimes, however, the stories hide behind them, but they can also be the story itself.
Trees hiding in our stories
The last was true for Paul Leather’s interview about the tree that his father and uncle planted, now almost a century ago. The story of his family and that of the tree are deeply interwoven. The tall Poplar and Paul are children of the same father, siblings with a shared roots in Spon End. Poplar trees are known to grow fast and rise high. This one survived the transformation of the built environment. Now, it towers over the river that feeds it and peaks with ease through the windows into the lives of residents in the much younger houses on the estate below.
Trees in Spon End are plenty but most are silent and visible only to those that decide to see and listen to them. This makes them vulnerable. Not all are given equal status and, sadly, often it is only when they are gone that trees are missed. Some, such as the Black Mulberry at the IKEA and the Lime tree on Windsor Street, are protected by law, while all others are at the mercy of the vision of developers and bureaucrats. Their future is precarious.
Just last month, a friend and interviewee told us about the trees that suddenly had “disappeared” in the space behind the garden of the old Hamptons pub and the Khamara Lounge on the Butts. All that was left behind by the anonymous night loggers were the severed trunks of bodies that once had curtained the Wellington Gardens. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, these friendly giants were no more, leaving the space and the residents felt exposed and naked. It was a sad reminder how deeply the lives of trees and humans are entangled in the making of a community.
Spon End 