IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF A FAMOUS SON OF MORPETH
MY seat is fashioned by nature: a fallen tree surrounded by a haze of bluebells and wild garlic.
I recall this once tall and elegant birch, whose shimmering leaves danced in the sunlight on the slightest breeze, while its trunk stood out against these azure surroundings, displaying the delicate tints and texture of its bark.
A few years ago it was brought to earth with natural dignity, and laid to rest by the winds of time.
The dew sparkles in the sunlight of this May morning, displaying a masterpiece set in light and shade, and the world seems somewhat different today.
On many occasions I have rested on this stately seat and watched the seasons pass in this sylvan South facing locality we know as the Bluebell Woods.
The snowdrops and aconites in this wood have once again displayed their beauty, having enjoyed the early sunlight and its life giving rays, they have now returned to their long sleep.
From early February they had pushed through the dry leaves that carpet the woodland floor in their search for the light. Their emergence can vary by days, sometimes early — sometimes late, but always with us. Their presence is a symbol of the rebirth of early Spring.
As the season advances (March) the flower heads of the celandine and wood anemone can be seen cradled amongst the same dry leaves, while the broadleafed wild garlic, and the fresh green clumps of bluebell look full of promise.
The clarion notes of the song thrush ring out like a Wagnerian tenor throughout this wooded glade as the mellower flute-like overtures of the blackbird match the soft breath of this halcyon morning. Their music is now with us from the dawning until the conclusion of the day, bringing harmony to earth and sky. At times unwary of the sparrow hawk that glides swiftly through the trees in silent contrast.
Once again the woods show me that nature’s calendar is engraved in sound, colour, stealth, and uncertainty.
Generations of trees have come and gone. The present are returning once more into their abundant foliage. They, like the bluebells, take their stimulation from this pure light that penetrates the being of all living things.
We live in a medieval town whose history is very well documented. This year is the 500th anniversary of the birth of Dr William Turner (1508-1568). A celebration of his life’s work will be carried out this year through the initiative of The Friends of Carlisle Park and, supported by the Borough Council, they began with the Northumbrian Gathering.
Dr Turner, a national figure, is well recorded in scholarship. He was a man of many talents:physician, botanist, ornithologist, author, man of the church. He is known as the father of English botany, and the author of Turner’s Herball written in the English language.
I wonder if he strolled through this woodland too, on such a morning? He was a son of this town, born in Morpeth. Our town nestles in the valley of the Wansbeck; and its eastern boundaries are cradled by these woods. He would have been familiar with the medicinal benefits of the woodland plants, and the spirit and poetry of these woodlands.
The brilliant vocal overtures of the thrush and blackbird, transcending this leafy canopy, would have been the same then as it is today. During his years of anxiety, and exile did his memories return to his birthplace? Did his thoughts traverse once again the woods and fields, recalling the solitude and tranquillity of his youth?
A man of his times, and a scholar, mixing with the scholars and fellow churchmen of his day, both in England and Europe. He was educated as a young boy in Morpeth.
Leaving home and travelling along life’s uncertain highway from the banks of the Wansbeck to the lofty and hallowed halls of Cambridge, he moved on to more intriguing and turbulent times in the politics of manhood, church, and state. Centuries have passed by since his death — his fame did not rise from a headstone shrouded in the mists of ambiguity. He achieved prominence and recognition in his lifetime.
For those aware of Dr Turner’s life, on a stroll through these woods and fields one can sense its atmosphere, hear its sounds, and admire their collective beauty as well as appreciate the vision of Turner, an aristocrat of nature.
The swifts have returned once again, having completed the long journey home. They circle high up in the air above the edge of the wood, feeding upon the airborne insects as in Turner’s day. The swallows are with us too. He would have watched their ancestors flying above the Wansbeck nearby, long before the wonders of bird migration were studied and understood.
I recall many years ago having conversations with the late George Chapman, a keen botanist, Turner Scholar, and Headmaster of King Edward VI School. In one conversation he told me of coming across an original edition of Turner’s Herball in the Council chambers. He edited a facsimile edition of 'William Turner A New Herball’ published by Mid Northumberland Arts Group / Carcanet Press 1989. Also a later edition of 'William Turner A New Herball’ published by Cambridge University Press 1996. In these scholarly editions he was assisted by Marilyn Tweddle who also taught at King Edward VI.
Once again the spirit of Dr Turner has risen in his home town, enlightening us to a distant past where a son of this town played a prominent part in our national heritage.
In his memory we have these publications and the William Turner Garden situated in Carlisle Park, also Turner’s Way. Recognition of his great contribution has not lain dormant in the town of his birth.
This fallen tree where I sit has many more purposes than a seat of repose and reflection, it is part of the ecosystem as it slowly returns to the earth. Already I see signs of life evolving from its decay: a young beech sapling grows immediately beside its prostrate position. A row of elder saplings stand like sentinels alongside its trunk. The fiddle heads of bracken stand erect, nourished by the recent heavy rains, are waiting to unfurl. Its demise will also provide a food source for the invertebrates.
All this is part of the living landscape, that I am also part of. In the years to come a fine beech tree could stand here, long after this birch has returned to the earth amongst the bluebells which are symbolic to ancient woodland.
This is the circle of life about me on this glorious morning, surrounded by God’s architecture. I realise true wealth is in the spirit of awareness — a sense of place — and a sense of belonging.
Looking over the adjacent field towards the Wansbeck, I see a sun-kissed landscape beautifully composed and framed by trees. The peacock and orange tip butterflies are on the wing. I watch them flying along the edge of the wood in the rising temperature of the morning. Leaving my seat, I make my way home under the dappled shade of the large beech, sycamore, and horse chestnut trees that line the footpath.
In the solitude of the morning, my thoughts have transcended the mists of time and I have grasped the moment, bringing to mind Thoreau’s immortal words: 'Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in’. Today, I drank deeply from its waters!
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