The Beech Hedge

We invited readers of our weekly newsletter to submit entries to win a copy of Anna Koska’s book ‘From Field and Forest’. This is the winning entry, written by Andrea Norrington as she recovered from long COVID

On the corner of my daily walking route to the nearest postbox is a fence. It surrounds a large house, named the ‘Turrets’. The house is one of mystery and celebrity. It has often been unoccupied and then, at various times owned by soap opera actors. Long periods of darkness envelop the house - and then it becomes a hive of activity for a few months before returning once again to darkness.  

A new fence has been recently erected, and alongside the fence, a few straggly sticks of beech have been planted. They are spindly and twisted; the way that beech twigs seem to find the most convoluted way to grow. They are sparsely placed, large gaps of the fence visible between each upright stick.

Not much of a hedge, I think.  It looks half dead and resembles a bit how I feel.  A few marcescent leaves are attached to branches. They are golden bronze in colour, catching the soft sunlight. Tough and leathery as I reach out to touch one, pausing for breath.

The hedge forms a natural stop point for me.

It starts where I cross the road.  Cars often travel faster than the speed limit here as they accelerate down the road.  There is no pedestrian crossing, so I must judge the walk across the road with care.  Knowing there is no extra energy in my body to make a dash to cross.  Those spindly sticks mark safe passage to the other side of the road.  

On the return journey, the hedge acts as a pausing point.  

A place to stop and rest for a few moments.

As the month passes, the undergrowth starts to swell, cleavers take hold; I trudge up the Latin name Galium aparine.  

The common name at school was ‘sticky willy’ and I smile at memories of childhood; sticking them on one another. 

Next comes some grass, tough, strong, and growing tall.  

This is not the grass of fine lawns but a tough country cousin. Still, the hedge remains bare; the wind and rain have removed more of the marcescent leaves - I use that word again, marcescent - it was one of the first things I learnt on a horticultural course many years ago and one of the few things to stick.  It flows from my mouth sounding rich and old and wise, which is - of course - what the year-old leaves are.

The walks are getting easier now, and I am going further. The hedge is less of a rest point – but now a staging point between the postbox and beyond. It is still the place where I cross the road. Still carefully taking my time to avoid the speeding cars. The dandelions are here, bright and yellow. Growing taller, they act as bright beacons to illuminate the path on these dreary, (unusually) rainy days of May.

One afternoon I am brave and take the dog with me, I am very weak and she is very strong, but she is calm and controlled for me.  

This side of the road is new to her.  She normally walks on the other side of the road and takes a different route towards her familiar local haunts. She stops to sniff beneath the hedge; new scents must abound and catch her interest. I get to stand and notice again, pausing now for her, rather than for me to catch my breath. There is some blossom emerging on a stump of blackthorn. Soft, white, with the delicate hint of pink on some of the blossoms. Such a gentle sight on a very blustery day. The wind buffets the branch, and it sways, supple in the wind.

As the next few weeks pass, the dandelions are no longer yellow.  Instead, the fluffy clocks stand tall, waiting for their seeds to be ready to disperse.

 

Then from nowhere the hedge is

full of lush green growth.  

Verdant new leaves, soft and velvety forming coverage against the fence. The growth is dense, the fence has almost disappeared. The beech branches have lengthened and now overhang the path.  As I walk past, the leaves - wet from recent rain - trail against my jacket depositing a line of water.

How had I not noticed this?  

Had this mass greening happened overnight?  

When I return from my walk, I flick through photographs I have taken over the last few months and see the leaves oh-so-gently emerging. 

I was so engrossed in looking at the hedge I hadn’t seen what was happening as the leaves budded and then unfurled day by day.

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