The Tree Climber's Guide by Jack Cooke

Author:Jack Cooke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2016-02-09T05:00:00+00:00

Pankhurst’s Stave, Victoria Tower Gardens

Prunus avium/Wild cherry

Wading through lines of sentry boxes and camera-clad tourists, I come to a tall cherry tree guarding the east entrance to Victoria Tower Gardens.

Beneath the blossom is a memorial to Emmeline Pankhurst, her chiselled forehead rivalling a nearby Rodin reproduction. The frond of a weeping ash has been twisted through the statue’s outstretched fingers, so that Pankhurst looks like she’s enjoying a walk in the woods instead of battling the patriarchy.

I leap up to grasp a branch on the west face of the cherry. Great rolls of bark are flaking off at the base, the result of frost damage from past winters. A man in a grey suit, grey shirt and grey tie passes beneath, licking the ends of a roll-up cigarette. He gives me a cold stare – no doubt his eyes are also colourless.

Climbing the cherry, I find mature branches interspersed with rings of lesser shoots and am careful where I tread. The colourful bark is marked by horizontal bands, the easiest way to identify the species. This is a useful tree, with sweet-smelling firewood and fruit that makes a mean brandy.

Perched high up the trunk I watch policemen patrol the fringe of Parliament Square. Big Ben strikes the hour, five deep peals echoing out across Westminster. I can almost hear the collective sigh of the tourists milling below, another London experience ticked off the list.

The south-west tower of the Houses of Parliament rises through the branches, its sand-coloured stone and statuary stark against the blossom. Scaffolding runs along the length of the high gutter and tiny dayglo figures weave beneath Pugin’s spires. The corridors of power are rendered invisible behind opaque windows.

Behind the cherry an easier perch is afforded by the low boughs of Elizabeth’s English oak. Planted in 1977 to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Queen’s coronation, the oak has not thrived in its semi-circle of lawn but still makes for a fine retreat.

Exiting through the far side of the gardens I pass the cupcake of Charles Buxton’s emancipation memorial fountain. This Gothic fantasy, with its fairy-tale crown, is a strange blend of materials, the red sandstone piers eroding fast under marble columns.

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