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| Country diary: bright berries and noisy visitors in the churchyard | Country diary: bright berries and noisy visitors in the churchyard |
| (3 months later) | |
| Wenlock Edge, Shropshire Scratch-calls and white strobing underwings announce a flock of fieldfare in the abbey ruins | |
| Paul Evans | |
| Wed 1 Nov 2017 05.30 GMT | |
| Last modified on Mon 27 Nov 2017 14.32 GMT | |
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| Yew berries glow brilliant red at the green edges of the tree’s inner darkness. It is five minutes to closing time when I slip into the Wenlock Priory ruins. Lawns have been freshly cut; towering stones radiate warmth on one of the last of the fine autumn days; no other feet tread the paths. | Yew berries glow brilliant red at the green edges of the tree’s inner darkness. It is five minutes to closing time when I slip into the Wenlock Priory ruins. Lawns have been freshly cut; towering stones radiate warmth on one of the last of the fine autumn days; no other feet tread the paths. |
| It is still bright as the church clock strikes five. Lime, hazel and beech have the smouldering brassy ochre of a slow autumn’s burn, only now reaching their peak. A large horse chestnut bough has been downed in a recent gale. Tall pines rise skyward like those marking drover roads in the hills. Where they end the sky is blue beyond smoky clouds. | It is still bright as the church clock strikes five. Lime, hazel and beech have the smouldering brassy ochre of a slow autumn’s burn, only now reaching their peak. A large horse chestnut bough has been downed in a recent gale. Tall pines rise skyward like those marking drover roads in the hills. Where they end the sky is blue beyond smoky clouds. |
| Tsak, tsak, tsak: scratch-calls and white strobing underwings announce a band of fieldfare, the grey-headed thrushes recently arrived from Scandinavia. There is something about the sound of them, like kids gathering in the churchyard – as yet unformed voices heading who-knows-where. The Norse birds will still be picking worms and other flesh from the fields they “fare” through, but soon they will tune in to the scarlet of the berries. | Tsak, tsak, tsak: scratch-calls and white strobing underwings announce a band of fieldfare, the grey-headed thrushes recently arrived from Scandinavia. There is something about the sound of them, like kids gathering in the churchyard – as yet unformed voices heading who-knows-where. The Norse birds will still be picking worms and other flesh from the fields they “fare” through, but soon they will tune in to the scarlet of the berries. |
| Only the yew’s red aril – the sweet, snotty flesh holding its taxine-loaded seed – is edible and yet it’s the only part of the tree that advertises itself as dangerous. In winter, when yews are most toxic, fieldfares and others will plunder all these berries; the seeds will migrate through bird guts and out, for more yews to find a root-hold here. | Only the yew’s red aril – the sweet, snotty flesh holding its taxine-loaded seed – is edible and yet it’s the only part of the tree that advertises itself as dangerous. In winter, when yews are most toxic, fieldfares and others will plunder all these berries; the seeds will migrate through bird guts and out, for more yews to find a root-hold here. |
| Before these teetering remains of the medieval imagination, before the razed Saxon abbey where they called the birds feldefare, way before the yew hedges and daft birdy-shaped topiary, these berries belonged to sacred trees, Ywen. The immortality of yews lies not only in ancient monster individuals and world mythology but also in seedlings pushing their way through masonry, gently but persistently returning the groves. | Before these teetering remains of the medieval imagination, before the razed Saxon abbey where they called the birds feldefare, way before the yew hedges and daft birdy-shaped topiary, these berries belonged to sacred trees, Ywen. The immortality of yews lies not only in ancient monster individuals and world mythology but also in seedlings pushing their way through masonry, gently but persistently returning the groves. |
| It is soon dark and the band of churchyard kids, intoxicated on whatever and youth itself, eventually stop calling into the night and fly away. That darkness hidden under yew boughs during the day is now out. | It is soon dark and the band of churchyard kids, intoxicated on whatever and youth itself, eventually stop calling into the night and fly away. That darkness hidden under yew boughs during the day is now out. |
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