Grounded by James Canton

Author:James Canton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canongate Books Ltd

Here was the root of the paradox around the elder tree.

In practical terms, it had a variety of uses. Its leaves warded flies off cattle. Its flowers and berries made cordial and wine. They tasted delicious, cured sore throats and soothed eyes. Yet the wood was hardly used. Was it simply that it didn’t burn well, or because of those superstitions? Even the name elder was apparently formed from the mingling of a ‘Scandinavian tree spirit’ Hylde-Moer with the Anglo-Saxon term aeld, meaning fire, as the hollow branches of fresh elder were used ‘like bellows for blowing on fire’ so helping reach the higher temperatures needed to melt metals. But, of course, those same elder branches should never be burnt on the fire.9

I turned to other sources and found a website called ‘White Dragon’, where Hylde-Moer was described as a dryad with the title the Elder Tree Mother. There was guidance as to the cutting of wood from the elder: ‘If you do need to cut yourself some wood from the tree, approach the tree with respect; ask first, and listen with an open heart.’ That was the way to seek permission. But you needed to listen to your own feelings too. Further advice stated, ‘don’t cut if you get a strong intuition not to’.10

Such was the difficulty of stepping into matters of what were essentially beliefs. Did I believe that there was really a witch in the elder tree that I took dead wood from? No. Yet within me there was still enough lingering respect for the magical and superstitious elements existing in the natural world around us for me to pay heed to folkloric advice.

There was no doubt an aspect, too, of practicality in forming the way in which we viewed elder wood. It didn’t burn well. At least not nearly as well as elm or oak or ash, over which there were no superstitious concerns about using the tree for firewood. Over thousands of years, the culinary and medicinal properties of elder coupled with the ability to ward off flies, ensured the tree was allowed to flourish close to the home. Why bother cutting it for wood when it burnt so badly? Perhaps the elder’s popularity with the herbalists, the ancient medics, the wise old women, was what led to the legend that witches lived in the tree.

I stepped away. There was too much playing around my head. I took my bike and headed down towards the River Colne and the site of those Bronze Age round circles. I cycled fast, plunging down the hollow way of Hampers Lane, the immediate thrill of the speed and the wind rushing past dispelling thoughts of demons in trees and dark arts. The land fell away. I flew down, past the burnt oak, enclosed in a tunnel of greenery and emerged into sunlight and open fields. I slowed. The sandy soils spilled onto the road. I freewheeled on into the shade of the woodland. There was Puck’s Hill off to the south.

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