I wake to the sound of rain on the window, but decide to go anyway. An hour and a half in the car and we are in the heart of the Lakes, having bowled along an empty motorway early on Christmas day. As we enter Borrowdale the rain intensifies, blown along the valley in curtains by the brisk wind. I leave the warm car reluctantly, urged on by the dog.
We walk down the small road, alongside the clear greenish water of the river racing over its stony bed. The surrounding fells are grey shadowy presences, and the roaring water and wind fill all the space between. I spot the small shape of another solitary walker way ahead of me vanishing into the rain, my only encounter with another live human in this place.
The path leading up to the grove has become a stream, but once inside the damp shelter of the outstretched branches I forget the falling rain. Wordsworth addressed the yews here as ‘the Fraternal Four’, but now there are three still standing together on this small patch of sloping fell, and we know they are all female, from the same base. Later, I try to think of a replacement phrase for Wordsworth that reflects this sisterhood. Of course, there is not a latinate equivalent adjective for us sisters to use, given those patriarchal times, let alone a choice that retains his poetic assonance. Perhaps you can think of one?
I walk around the largest tree, absorbing its grandeur as I step over its roots. Then I see that it has hollowed out inside as it has aged, like many other ancient yews
The reddish brown trunks of these trees are deeply layered, their sinews glistening with rain water, bringing to my mind William Blake’s drawings of mythical figures, such as Nebuchadnezzar. Despite their hollowness and approximate fifteen hundred years of existence here, I feel their vitality and strength as I lean against their limbs, listening to the hushed watery roaring around us. Wordsworth could be just a step away, right now. As I run my hands over their muscled rough bark I experience my own smallness. How short our human lifespans are compared to these quiet giants. How much they must have witnessed, and given shelter to here over the centuries.
The dog barks, bringing me back to my wet self. Having finished his own detailed inspection of the grove, he is ready to go. I thank the sisters for the privilege of sharing this fleeting moment with them, and wonder how many more years they will be able to dwell here.
What encounters with time have you had?
Fragments of self 