Last month, I sat in a tranquil garden in Devon, admiring an eye-pleasing, ivy-covered apple tree. Although I didn’t think to take a photo (I know – unusual for me!), I did contemplate the viney view.
Ivy leaves (not in Devon!)
The tree looked very healthy, with ripened fruit scattered about on the lawn (attracting seagulls of all things).
However, I wasn’t entirely sure whether Common Ivy (Hedera helix) was parasitic or not, so had to google it to check.
“Maligned and misunderstood, ivy is often accused of strangling plants. While it may need controlling to keep it in check, particularly where it creeps into borders, ivy doesn’t directly harm trees and is a fantastic plant for wildlife.”
Ivy’s aerial (above ground) roots
The ivy I saw certainly wasn’t doing the thriving apple tree any harm.
Hoverfly feeding on an ivy flower, Hastings, 28/9/25
Ivy provides incredible resources for wildlife, including shelter, nesting-places and food for a wide range of insects and birds.
Thick, woody ivy roots, covered in holes and webs, indicating a wealth of invertebrate life
The leaves are the food-plant for the Holly Blue butterfly and the Swallow-tailed moth.
Swallow-tailed moth, 27/6/24
Her flowers provide pollen and nectar late into the season for many insects such as bees, hoverflies, wasps, butterflies and moths.
Hornet Mimic Hoverfly on ivy flowers, Winchelsea, 6/9/25
Ivy’s high-fat berries are a rich source of food for numerous garden birds including blackbirds, finches, thrushes, doves, starlings, waxwings and pigeons.
Blackbird, Hastings, 1/3/25
As I contemplated the ivy-apple tree in Devon last month, considering the richness it brings to its surroundings and yet the misdirected judgment it sometimes receives from the ignorant, an obvious parallel sprang to mind, as the ongoing debate about immigration continues.
Education and information, alongside personal encounters, can help to break down our prejudices and promote appreciation of maligned and misunderstood creatures, whether arboreal or human.
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(As usual, all photos mine but I’m not precious about them, i.e. no copyright, so feel free to use!)
On a recent family trip to Ireland, top of my to-do list was a visit to the semi-ruined Muckross Abbey, a Franciscan friary renowned for the magnificent yew tree that stands in the centre of the building, spreading her maternal branches caressingly over the cloisters.
The tree is reckoned to be about 400 years old, although some estimate its origin to be as far back as the founding of the Abbey itself, around 1340.
Even going by conservative estimates, the yew is universally recognised and revered as one of Ireland’s oldest trees.
I love the theory that the Abbey might actually have been built around the already-growing tree.
Whichever came first – the Abbey or the yew – the deliberate placement of the tree at the heart of monastic life is a perfect expression of Franciscan spirituality, which integrates faith in God with a close connection to nature, following not only the way of St Francis but also that of Jesus.
I wondered what part the tree might have played in the monks’ spiritual life. No doubt a tangible sign of God’s immanent presence in Creation. Perhaps also a reminder of the tree (cross) on which their Saviour died.
How amazing it would be to have trees growing in the centre of our churches today (if it didn’t threaten the buildings’ foundations and void insurance policies!) – or to find other ways of keeping connections with nature at the heart of our faith communities.
Muckross Abbey sits within Killarney National Park, an outstandingly picturesque, expansive and wild mountainous area – again, no doubt an intentional move to immerse a life of faith into the life of Nature on the edges of civilisation.
This deer stayed nicely still for me
Above and below are some of the photos I took of other areas of the National Park, which I think give some sense of the wild beauty of the area.
Torc Waterfalls (complete with drops of rain on the camera lens!Hooded crows
Our visit to Muckross Abbey turned out to be briefer than we’d hoped. Nevertheless, to witness this icon of Franciscan spirituality fulfilled my expectations of inspiration and aesthetic brilliance.
The late afternoon April sun streaming through the narrow windows made parts of the tree and surrounding cloisters appear wondrously luminescent
When I first spotted this oak tree growing out of a signpost in Newgate Woods, near my home, it immediately grabbed my attention and I knew there was a blog in the making.
Oak sapling, Newgate Woods, 8th Sept
At first I thought of well-worn sentiments about the resilience of nature. But somehow I knew that wasn’t the thing to write about this time.
Something about ‘oaks of righteousness’ as described by the Jewish prophet Isaiah, perhaps? But that didn’t seem to fit either.
I also wondered about how the acorn that gave rise to the young sapling got there. Did a child deposit it into the signpost? Or maybe a jay or a magpie dropped the acorn there.
“A single jay can plant over 7,500 acorns in four weeks, living up to its Latin name, Garrulus glandarius, ‘the chattering acorn-gatherer’. It is particularly choosy, selecting ripe acorns that are not too small and have not been affected by parasites, those with high calorific value that also – hence the symbiosis – have the best chance of germination.” (Isabella Tree, Wilding, p.121)
But then the message for this blog post became clear.
I suddenly realised that – whatever its beginning – this tree had no hope of survival, with no sustaining soil to speak of, no territory to spread its roots out to.
No nurture = “No future”, as the Sex Pistols bellowed out over the bleak socioeconomic landscape of the late ‘70s.
This is of course true of children – and adults too. None of us can achieve our potential without some healthy ground to encourage our growth. We all need physical, emotional and/or spiritual nurturing at different times of our lives.
Otherwise our gifts and potential may wither and die.
I returned to the sapling a few weeks later and, sure enough, it was brown, withered, cobwebbed and…utterly dead.
The same sapling, Newgate Woods, 8th Oct
No surprises there.
I’ve been in a similar situation where, instead of nurturing and encouraging, the environment has been the opposite – fault-finding, dictatorial, controlling – and I’ve experienced a kind of dying. A mental torment that rendered me almost unable to do the things I normally do well. Instead of being mentally, physically or spiritually nurtured, I was mentally, physically and spiritually drained.
Focussing on doing the things I’m naturally or spiritually gifted at became an exhausting struggle. I became very unwell. As for growth – I found myself wilting like the sapling, rather than growing and fulfilling my potential.
I’m taking steps to move away from that destructive environment to one that is more constructive, and I hope to have some good news soon.
But the sapling episode reminds me not only to find good soil for my own growth, but to take every opportunity to nurture others, whether family members, colleagues, friends’ children, or friends themselves.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the woods, stands this mighty oak and many others, standing strong through the storms of many years, roots outstretched, absorbing nutrients from hundreds of metres around, providing a home for untold numbers of invertebrates, birds and squirrels.
Complete with my photo-bombing dog, Gorka
I hope to not only find life-giving ground for myself but to be that life-giving ground for others, so that they and I can be all we can be, just like this oak.
A few months ago, in The Fall and Rise of Nature, I posted pics of an Indian Chestnut tree that had just fallen in our local woods, reflecting on the richness of life that generates from dead wood and the importance of leaving Nature to do her own thing with fallen trees.
This week I witnessed evidence of that regeneration as several blue tits flitted about for ages on the fractured trunk of that Indian Chestnut, poking about in the arboreal sinews. I thought at first they were looking for gaps to nest in, but soon concluded they were more likely seeking out tasty invertebrates to feast on.
As well as the blue tits, a single wren skulked about (as wrens tend to do) at the base of the tree.
Maybe the slow, sunny transition from midwinter towards early Spring had triggered the release of insects from hibernation.
Whatever the case, this little buzz of bird life around the dead tree was a delight to behold and meditate on.
Sometimes, when we fall, we fall towards – rather than from – grace.
(Apologies for the slightly poor photos – best I could do!)
Summerfields Wood, our local dog-walking stomping ground, is a perennial site for the stunning Hairy curtain crust fungus (Stereum hirsutum)[1], whose bright orange margins illuminate its dank, dark surroundings like the first glimmers of dawn at the end of a long night.
So it’s not an unfamiliar sight.
However, while walking in the woods this weekend, this log, so breathtakingly bedecked with these marvellous mushrooms, caught my attention anew in wide-eyed wonder.
So much so, I decided the fungus-spangled log needed a photoshoot for a page of its own here…
“[Wonder] is one of the purest forms of joy that I can imagine…
Wonder is one of the most powerful forces with which we are born…
My sense of wonder is first and foremost something in and of itself, wonder for the sake of wonder. A small voyage of discovery. Though it can also be the seed that germinates, to bring forth new possibilities.”
Explorer, Erling Kagge, from his wonderful, short book, Silence
[1] I’m not an expert at identifying fungi. I think this is Stereum hirsutum. But it could also be Golden curtain crust (Stereum ostrea). Both species also seem to be known as False turkey-tail, which makes it very confusing. If you’re clearer than I am about which one this is, please let me know in the comments. Thanks!
One of the things I love about the green spaces in urban Hastings (St Helen’s Wood, Alexandra Park, Newgate Woods) is the rich variety of exotic and unusual trees planted decades ago, many helpfully labelled. Many of these are now magnificent, sturdy creatures of stature.
However, one such tree that I’ve always enjoyed watching through the seasons each year – an Indian Horse-chestnut – came down in last week’s storms.
A native of the Himalayas, the Indian Horse-chestnut (Aesculus indica) is popular in many parks and estates in the UK, where it was introduced in the mid-19th century.
Although in some ways I’m sorry to see the tree fallen, this is not the end of the story.
One of my favourite posts in an old blog of mine is Twist of Fate (do please take a look) – my attempt at poetry about a fallen trunk in Alexandra Park that continues to give life.
Rewilding pioneers Isabella Tree and Sir Charlie Burrell describe how, in their early days of rewilding the Knepp estate in West Sussex, instead of cutting down a previously grand old – now rotting old – oak, made the counterintuitive decision to leave the tree to its own devices – “our first lesson in sitting on our hands and leaving Nature in the driving seat.”
They watched a whole new universe spring to life, as beetles, other saproxylic (dead wood eating) invertebrates and woodpeckers began to find a home and nutrition in this dying habitat.
Voles took up residence in the rabbit warrens amongst the tree’s roots, and a heron frequently perched itself on a lower limb that overlooked a lake.
Isabella and Charlie learnt to leave fallen branches from other trees on the ground – encouraging the natural process of fertilisation for the trees.
As Isabella puts it, “Death became a different kind of living.” [1]
Most spiritualities have a healthy and hopeful outlook on death and dying. My own Christian faith has resurrection hope at its centre. Nature (God’s first “Bible”[2]) has always shown us this, with its patterns of renewal, revival and resurrection amidst its ostensibly messy system of decay and dying.
I write this while struggling with a bereavement myself. Putting these reflections together turns out to be an important cathartic process, reminding me of the hope that I hold.
It’s thought that the Victorians are to blame for our obsession with tidying up. Tidiness may be useful in some contexts, but it spells disaster for ecosystems.
In Nature, nothing is wasted.
Dead wood and fallen trees become sources of vital nutrients, create fresh habitats for new visitors, and give rise to all kinds of life.
The collapse of the Indian Horse-chestnut is by no means the end, either of its own life or that of others. In fact, it might just be an auspicious sign of new beginnings.
I just hope and pray now that the authorities don’t decide to tidy the fallen tree away, but leave it to do what Nature does best.
(Photos all mine, but no copyright!)
[1]Wilding by Isabella Tree (London: Picador, 2018).
It takes more than the destructive wake of extreme weather like Storm Eunice to stop Spring life from displaying her finest robes.
Tree in Alexandra Park, Hastings, brought down by Storm Eunice
Even if it means growing horizontally!
Crocuses and daffodils, still emerging from the base of the fallen tree
I can think of ordinary people in the news today, and many others closer to home, whose lives reflect the same kind of inspiring resilience. Downtrodden but not defeated. Rising up, proud and strong.
Wave being whipped up vertically, then horizontally, by the windGulls somehow managing to fly against the wind
Like a lot of people, we suffered some storm damage at home. Nothing too dramatic – our next door neighbour’s cherry tree fell on our fence. That is, one major bough toppled on to a fence that was already in need of some repair.
My neighbour and I chopped and sawed the fallen tree, and we’re getting the fence fixed. No lasting harm done.
(I didn’t think to get a picture of the tree first. Sorry for that missing bit of the story!)
Not one to waste an opportunity to delight in the gifts that Nature brings my way, I picked up a few of the snowy blossom-laden twigs to brighten up the kitchen.
Janine and I have enjoyed their presence the last few days as they’ve slowly shed their tiny, white petals over the worktop.
I started this post with my own version of the old “When life gives you lemons…” platitude*:
“When Life brings storms, pick up the flowers.”
I’m not much of a fan of far-too-easy platitudes, but sometimes they do resonate.
I’ve experienced a storm of stress and anxiety with physical symptoms recently, which is all calming down now, and I’m beginning to glean some bright fragments of blessing from the debris: things I’ve learned that will carry me through into a better future.
The Divine often has a way of speaking to us through Nature.
Whatever the weather, whatever the season, there’s always something to be received, to connect with, to draw us closer to Divine Reality and therefore closer also to ourselves and others.
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(All photos mine, but I’m not precious about copyright, so feel free to use any of them if you wish, with my blessing.)
*For an “alternative”, less platitudinous version of “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”, check out Kaitlin Shetler’s version. It’s brilliant.
“Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes”, according to Vincent van Gogh in the Doctor Who episode, Vincent and the Doctor.
Dragonfly in Newgate Woods, where I walk my dog, Gorka, most mornings
A wealth of artists, from poets and singers such as Van Morrison[1], Mary Oliver and The Unthanks[2], to writers Richard Mabey[3], Brian McLaren[4] and Mackenzie Crook[5], to the genius Vincent van Gogh himself, have helped and inspired me to delve further into the ‘magic of nature’ – to dive deeper into its divine depths.
Combe Valley
Maybe it’s me but I feel that both science and theology sometimes reduce the world around us to a utilitarian thing. An ‘it’. Call me picky (and I have been known to be picky about words), but the religious use of the word ‘creation’ for ‘Nature’ slightly jars with me….
…like Nature is seen as an inanimate object – there simply to ‘give glory to God’….
….rather than being a living, breathing entity given to us, to enjoy and love for her own sake, in her own right….
… to dance with, sing with….
enjoy being a part of.
Be family with.
My daughter with an exquisite male Orange-tip butterfly
I think this delights God’s heart.
Like tree-hugging: an exchange of vital gases, of complementary textures. A sharing of lives, of life. Of the Love that flows through all things.
Religion can sometimes be so intent on trying to worship God that it misses the wood for the trees – literally.
Highwoods
Likewise, science can be known to scrutinise, compartmentalise, to explain away in binary detail, until all awe and wonder have evaporated in the heat of cold analysis (I do like a paradox!).
Of course, it needn’t be – and isn’t always – like this. We need science and religion, both of which have the potential to lead us into the sheer, incredulous amazement that our souls were born for. Brian McLaren’s book, God Unbound: Theology in the Wild, is a great example of this.
As for me, my ever-deepening immersion into Nature, and my habit of talking to birds and trees, has led me to question whether I’m straying from my Christian faith into something more pagan. Fearing that my love for the created world exceeds my love for her Creator.
It’s good and healthy to question ourselves, and my self-query led to self-reassurance.
I find myself walking in the steps of St Francis, who acknowledged the consciousness and unique personality of each wild animal and addressed them as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’.
…St Francis, who in turn walked in the steps of Jesus, who in turn followed the pattern of thousands of years of wisdom teachers and prophets, who walked in and with Nature, learned and taught from Nature, found God in the everyday and not-so-everyday miracles of the wild.
My dog, Gorka, bedraggled and yellow-spangled, after running through a rape field!
And, as one of Jesus’ own best friends, John, made clear, our love for other human beings – and by extension all our fellow creatures – is a good barometer of our love for God.[6]
Rather than drawing us away from God, our deepening love for people and Nature is in fact an accurate expression of our love for God. And this is true even for those who profess no religious faith!
Our Western society and, sadly, Christendom, have a poor record of respect for the Earth, preferring largely to conquer rather than acknowledge and celebrate our oneness with her.
And the more industrialised, commercialised and technologised we become, the more we lose touch with Nature, with the Earth – and in the process lose something of ourselves and our experience of the God who lives and shines humbly and vulnerably from the natural world: incarnate through every creature, as well as in the infant Jesus.
Little Egret, at Cuckmere Haven
As we desperately try and reverse our tragic destruction of our home planet (and therefore our self-destruction), it’s surely more vital than ever that we as a human race recapture our oneness with Nature.
I rather like this quote that I recently came across: “Prayer is the act of resacralizing the desacralized world.”[7] I think that a prayerful approach to any situation enables us and those around us to (re)discover the inherent sacredness of anything and everything.
And I realised that when I enjoy my contemplative walks through woods and wilderness, I’m simply enjoying the sacredness, the magic, the holy wonder of Nature (of Creation, if you like!).
Trees – the Earth’s ‘lungs’
Although I do sometimes pray with words during these walks, I often try and avoid using words, even in thought, because words can be so superficial, so one-sided, and a hindrance to the experience of God in the presence of stillness, silence and songs of Nature.
My wife and daughter on Bulverhythe beach
Photos all mine and taken in glorious East Sussex.
Spirit of Nature 