As you can imagine, the forestry world is all aflutter with the ash disease. I'm not well enough informed to give you much detail, although here are the bare bones as I'm hearing it so far.
The ailment has caused 95% fatality in ash in Denmark, in very short order. Given that the Danes are a very lucid and enlightened people, living in similar climes to ourselves, you can assume that this is news. Once confirmed here, the lurgy has quickly been found all over the place, and we've hardly started looking yet.
It has seemingly spread in nursery stock, for like any other business, the propagation and growing of young trees has become an international affair, driven by economies of scale. Plants move all over the place. Opinions differ, but the fact is infections are initially turning up in recent plantings.
Unlike the larch, which is generally grown en masse in managed plantations, ash is ubiquitous. The pox affecting larch can be tackled by fire break fellings around infected sites, but where would you start with ash?
It is very possible that the cat is 100% out of the bag. We're starting to consider, in the mill, what it will mean.
Moving along, but still amongst the sticks, I came across an interesting contrast in one of the trade glossies to share with you.
One page detailed a project which has seen a length of 5,000-year-old Fenland bog oak excavated and carefully cut into planks, now being dried in a purpose-built kiln. Many pieces of bog oak are pulled from waterlogged or peaty soils, occasionally even high up on Dartmoor, having fallen into anaerobic conditions in millennia past. Obviously, not every tree preserved proves to be much cop, let alone of millable quality.
This tree, however, has yielded very good boards, almost black in colour and 44ft long. Yes, 44 feet. Those experienced in bog oak are agape at the stature of the tree – the best I've got is the V of a thumb stick in my own bog oak, after the Galloways rubbed a lump out of the peat. These boards however will make a monstrous table for some Diamond jubilee project. Fascinating – check it out on www.thefenland blackoakproject.org.uk
And then, on the adjoining page, an equally interesting article talked of a new treatment you can paint on to the pointy ends of your tantalised fence posts, to make 'em last a bit longer. See, now the green pressure treatment fluid has had the nasties taken out, it isn't as good as the old CCA stuff. Hence, you might want to splosh on this gloopy black bitumen stuff.
What a nice comparison. Somewhere in Cambridgeshire, someone digs out an outstanding piece of 5,000-year-old black oaken timber. Elsewhere, the rest of us are driving rather suspect bits of pointy softwood back into the ground, having neatly painted them black first. I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere, though I'm not altogether sure what it is.
And lastly, remaining amongst the trees, I'm sad to have to report the passing of a forester friend.
Graham Miles had been employed on Powderham Estate for some years, and it was here that I came to know him while viewing round timber. He was the most pleasant of men to deal with, and I became very fond of his company.
For as well as being a practical, professional man, straight forward to deal with, he was also full of a relentless gentle good humour, and had a rich fund of wisdom and philosophy which made him such a pleasure to know.
When Graham finally succumbed to ill health, it was no surprise to find a big crowd turned out to pay their respects, nor unexpected to hear how much he'd fitted into his life.
Before settling into forestry, Graham had trained as a carpenter, milked cows, hunted a pack of mink hounds, and served time in a sawmill. Between times he'd also run after Beagles – he was a great hound man apparently – and had once taken it upon himself to ride his horse from John O'Groats to Lands End, kipping under hedges as he went.
He sang folk songs, fished, shot, and took time to enjoy the rich rural tapestry around him, reflecting all that's best in the countryside. Despite leaving us too soon, his lovely family and many friends all felt the thread connecting us to his well-lived life. So long, Graham.