It has stood there for over 800 years old. It broke ground before the King was forced into signing the Magna Carta. It has stood whilst Shakespeare doodled, whilst bombs and bullets flew, before an island controlled a quarter of the globe, before many nations were born.

I remember the first time I touched that bark, felt that wood. I realised my fingers were touching history. That this tree had been seen by so many before me and, with luck, would stand long after I am gone.

The air was warm. The smell of barley malt was sweet in the air. The trees, tall and alive, surrounded me, and I felt at peace. I’ve always loved woodland. I loved it since I was a boy, when I would walk through the woods to see my grandparents. Certain smells take me back to those moments, of a time when the world was full of wonder and delight.

Beneath me, the ground was soft, and beneath that shallow covering, I knew that roots were still growing, roots that had anchored the tree against the maelstrom of so many storms.

Just as my father held my tiny hand and talked about the woods, so I did too with my little boy. His tiny hand in mine, his wonder at all the natural beauty of the wood, it all made it all the more wondrous. 

The past surrounds us, from ancient ruins, to aged oaks. We walk on the dust of our forebears, and we would remember that more often. The world belongs to us all, it is hateful to me that a privileged few seem to hold dominance over the natural state we live in. 
We should all take a moment, and rest against an ancient oak, and realising how brief our time is, take time to reflect, to heal, to grow.

I took an acorn, I plan to let it grow. A gift for my love, one that can be tended long after I am gone…