This unfurled ‘page’ of lettering on a Beech tree literally means a book…
The German word for “letter” – Buchstabe – literally means “Beech stick” and refers to a time when an old form of lettering called runes was carved or punched into staves or sticks (Staben) made of beech wood (Buche) [Fagus sylvatica]. Our word stab comes from this pointed stick, too.
Runes were used for divination and when making important decisions. The German / Old Teutonic was itself derived from Old Norsk bók meaning beech. So, the beech tree is the origin of the English word book. In Old English it was bóc.
Buchstaben, then, literally means beech graffiti. And, lots of letters put together … a book / Buch / and back to beech. Love it!
The smooth bark is an ideal surface for carving. As the tree grows in height and girth, the letters rise up the trunk and expand, giving clues to the tree’s age.
Extracts from the Oxford English dictionary (2nd edition 1989)
A com. Teut. Word OE. bóc These forms indicate an OTeut. *bôk The original meaning was evidently ‘writing-tablet, leaf, or sheet’ OE. bóc charter: in pl. tablets, written sheets, hence ‘book,’ a sense subseq. extended to the singular.
Gothic does not show *bôks, but an apparently derivative form bôka strong fem., in sense of ‘letter’ of the alphabet, pl. bôkôs litteræ, γράµµατα, writing, document, book.
The OED adds a note to dampen this lovely eponymous circularity of meaning:
[Generally thought to be etymologically connected with the name of the beech-tree, OE. bóc, béce, ON. bók:—(see beech), the suggestion being that inscriptions were first made on beechen tablets, or cut in the bark of beech trees; but there are great difficulties in reconciling the early forms of the two words, seeing that bôk-s ‘writing-tablet’ is the most primitive of all.]
Never let truth get in the way of a good story, though.
From the end of June through July I’ll be leading weekly walks, using London’s mulberry trees as waypoints to discover the capital’s hidden past. From Roman bathhouses and Thameside wharves to King James I’s silk project; from Chelsea’s fascinating veteran mulberry heritage to the City’s Monasteries and Inns of Temple …
The Victorian nature writer, Richard Jefferies (1848 – 1887) is up there with Gilbert White (1720 – 1793) and the poet John Clare (1793 – 1864) as a leading influence on contemporary nature writers, such as Richard Mabey and Robert MacFarlane. And for good reason.
Some of the writing in Wild Life in a Southern County (1879), for example, is minutely observed and evocative, albeit both romantic and anthropomorphic:
“Up the blade of grass here a tiny white-shelled snail has crawled, feeling in its dull, dim way that evening is approaching. The coils of the little shell are exquisitely turned – the workmanship is perfect; the creature within, there can be no question, is equally perfect in its way and finds a joy in the plants on which it feeds. On the ground below, hidden among the fibres near the roots of the grass, lies another tiny shell; but it is empty, the life that once animated it has fled – whither? Presently the falling dew will condense upon it, and at the opening one round drop will stand…”
I can remember, as a young child, perhaps 7 years old, lying on the chalk slopes by the woods near to our house and looking at the little snails, the ants, the blades of grass, the butterflies, and entering their world, with the same kind of close-up vision. Jefferies has not only preserved this faculty, which most children share but leave behind as they become adults, but he is also able to put it into words.
Yet Jefferies also dispassionately describes shooting almost any creature that he is curious about, especially birds – jackdaws, rooks, even a heron. And this trigger-happy form of natural science he shares with Gilbert White. I don’t remember contemporary writers inspired by Jefferies and White, like Richard Mabey and Robert MacFarlane, dwelling on this, yet it is something that separates the generations, and, presumably, makes it impossible for those more likely to be armed with a magnifying glass and binoculars, to get “into the head” of these bygone naturalists. Perhaps that’s where Clare has the edge.
Some 40 or more years ago, when I first read Venture to the Interior by Laurens van der Post, I was struck by his vivid description of a dense forest of unique cedar trees, high on the Mulanje Plateau in southern Nyasaland, (now Malawi). Having spent much of my childhood on the edge of a soft and bright ancient beech wood in the Chilterns, the dark, ominous forest that van der Post describes evoked a very different experience of trees and woodland to my own. I’ve wanted to write about this ever since. But I hadn’t bargained for what I would discover (Spoiler alert: scroll down to the end of this blog article).
Venture to the Interior is a narrative account of Van der Post’s mission to Nyasaland (now Malawi) in 1949 to explore two relatively unknown parts of the country for the British government.
The book is, despite its intrinsic colonial tone, beautifully written. Van der Post was something of an evangelist for the theories of Carl Jung, the Swiss psychoanalyst, so it is little surprise that Venture to the Interior treats Africa, the continent in which he was born, as a metaphor for the unconscious – and more specifically his own unconscious – which he contrasts with ‘rational’ Europe, his adopted home as an adult. There is, he says in the Preface to the book, “…an unresolved conflict between two fundamental elements in my make-up; conscious and unconscious, male and female, masculine and feminine; the constitution of my father and the presence of my mother in me. On one side, under the heading “AFRICA”, I would group unconscious, female, feminine, mother; and under “EUROPE”: conscious, male masculine, father.” (pp.12-13). Comparisons with Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, written 60 years earlier, are obvious.
Here are extracts from the pages dealing with van der Post’s first encounter with the cedars of Mulanje, in his ascent with Peter Quillan, the Chief Forestry Officer of the province and their meeting with forester, “Dicky” Vance, whom they arrange to meet near his forestry hut:
It seemed that Mlanje, from the forestry point of view, was unique. There was no other place like it in Africa or the world. It was indeed a world of its own, a very ancient, lost world of trees that grew nowhere else. These trees, he [Quillan] said had been given the name of cedars, Mlanje cedars, because they looked to the uninitiated eyes like cedar. But they were not cedars at all. They were a conifer of a unique and very ancient sort, had their roots in the most antique of antique Africa botanical worlds. I would see them for myself soon, in fact I would smell them even before I saw them. Their scent, night and day, filled the air on the mountain; filled it with a heavy, all-pervasive but delicious scent of a lost world; of a time and a place that existed nowhere else.
Their colour, like their scent, was unique. It was green, of course, but like no other green; there was a sheen of the olive green of cypress, and the substance of the green of the ilexes of Greece and the Caucasus; the texture of the conifers of Columbia and the vital electric sparkle of African juniper. In the bark, in the veins and arteries of those trees, the sap, a thick, yellow, resinous sap of a specific gravity and density most unusual in conifers, ran strongly. If you laid your ear to a trunk, it was almost as if you could hear this vital, this dark, secret traffic drumming upwards, skywards, from the deep, ancient soil, the original earth perhaps of Africa, to the outermost, the smallest spike of a leaf, sparkling in the sun a hundred, even a hundred and twenty feet above. So full were the trees of this vital sap that it preserved them even in death; no insect, no worm, no ant would touch even the driest morsel of .it. It was the only ant-resisting wood in the whole of Africa.
But when one threw it on the fire as I would soon see, it was so full of life, of stored-up energy from another world, that it literally exploded into flame. It consumed itself joyfully and gaily, crackling explosively in flame with none of that lugubrious reluctance to burn of some other woods that Quillan could mention. And fire, unfortunately had nearly been the cedars’ undoing. Some centuries ago when human beings first appeared in the plains round Mlanje, great fires swept up the mountain and burnt havoc through the responsive cedar woods. They, the Forestry Services, had come just in time to save the remnants of it.
There was still a good deal of forest left–enough for them to exploit in order to get the money to rejuvinate [sic] the species, but what I would see was a world of cedars in retreat, a world of unique and irreplaceable living trees, fighting a desperate rearguard action against fire and rapacious human beings, standing-to gallantly, night and day, without cease in the deepest, dampest and remotest recesses of the mountain. Surely I could understand why they were so jealous, so suspicious on the trees’ behalf! [..]
[Quillan] explained that they were so short of good wood in Nyasaland that they were cutting cedar at Chambe, sawing it up by hand and carrying it down the mountain, each length separately on the head of black porters.
“It is hell for them” said Quillan “but they don’t mind and we have got to do it. We make it up to them by feeding them and paying them as well as we can, but we don t like it.[…]
I became aware of a strange, thick, resinous, spiced, oily scent, and Quillan said: “Do you mind getting off the track, please?”
There seemed to be a deep, sheer drop on our right, so, using saplings, we pulled ourselves up on to a steep slope to the left of the track. I heard the pad-pad of heavily burdened feet coming out of the mist above, then someone breathing and puffing with every cell of his lungs, followed by a smell of human sweat mingling with the scent of resin and a native balancing a heavy, thirty-foot beam of cedar on his head, came out of the mist towards us.
I thought it wrong, somehow, that laden and breathing as he was, he should feel compelled to raise his hand and say, “Morning, Bwana !” Besides, he was just on the edge of a precipice.
“He gets ninepence a day and some food for doing that,” said Quillan. “I’d be damned if I’d do it.”
From now on we passed dozens of carriers coming down the mountain at regular intervals. Quillan always took the same punctilious care to make way for them. We began to talk less. The track became steeper and we had to use our hands as well as our feet in places. One bit of it passed a tremendous drop of smooth sheet rock, cyanite I think Quillan called it. The rock had a seventy-degree slope above us, but below it dropped sheer into the mist. We clambered across it from one precarious foothold of moss and aloe root to another.[…]
At twelve exactly, three hours after our start, as we were going up a particularly steep part of the mountain using our hands as well as our feet in places, I heard dogs barking in the mist above us.
“Those are Vance’s dogs. I expect he is coming to meet you,” Quillan said, paused, and sniffing at the mist, added: “Do you notice something?”
It was that heavy scent. Every time the timber carriers went by I had smelt it, a scent that I had not come across anywhere else. But now it was much more confident and pronounced. I nodded.
“Cedars,” he said, breathing the scent in with deep satisfaction. “Cedars, as I told you. We are near the top now.” […]
The peaks were still covered but the valley, the so-called Chambe plateau up which we had walked, became more and more open to view. I could see what Arbuthnot meant by saying it was like a glen in Scotland. It was utterly unlike the Africa we had left down below.
It was covered in lovely long rye, oat and barley grasses, gold-green and purple in their early winter colours. Through the valley on all sides, from behind folds, hills, and many slow, gradual rises in its contours, flowed crystal-clear streams, presumably the rainbow trout streams of which I had heard so much.
At first I thought there were palm trees growing on the banks of the streams, but I soon realized that they were huge tree ferns, the last remnants of the great cedar forests that once had covered this valley too. The scent of the cedars themselves now was most marked. Soon I began to see them, as Quillan had so vividly described them to me: at first, in small clusters driven back into odd, remote nooks of the valley, but then, as we went deeper into the valley, there appeared in the central gash of it a real, dank, brooding, resentful forest of them. It was rather an awe-inspiring sight. They looked, in an odd way, prehistoric; lovely, but long before human time. I would not have been surprised to see a pterodactyl fly out of them. All round the edges their branches were festooned and heavily hung with garlands and veils of lichen and moss.
“Aren’t they wonderful!” Vance said to me in his clear, firm voice, proudly as if he had invented them. […]
[Vance’s forestry hut] stood on a high grass-gold mound in the central gash of the valley. There was a wide clear stream and a darker fringe of immense cedars round the bottom of the mound. As we made our way slowly towards it the afternoon light turned it purple and it looked rather like some kind of unadorned velvet set in a crown of be-metalled cedars. On either side of the stream there were long slopes of golden grass, speeding away and up to where three miles farther on perpendiculars of solid grey cliffs, smooth and shining like the bark of a blue-gum tree., rose two to three thousand feet above the floor of the valley. All around the cliff-tops the mist continued to sag heavily.
The hut itself was built of crossed-cedar beams, lath and plaster. It had a roof of cedar shingles, a little cedar veranda at the back, cedar floor-boards and, I was to find, a few pieces of crude cedar furniture as well. It burned cedar logs whose flame and. smoke added to the cold air their own variants of the generic all-pervasive scent. The smoke rose straight up for some hundreds of feet, wavered, and then curved slowly back on its course, until it looked like a feathery question mark stuck into the roof of the hut. […]
“I hope you won’t mind, but look, you are not going to take all this away from us are you?” [said Vance].
“How could I? And why should I?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I don’t know, but the feeling seems to be that you might want to use Mlanje for something other than forestry?”
I reassured him as best I could. I said I had not seen Mlanje, had no preconceived notions about it, but judging only from what I had seen that day, it seemed obvious that whatever happened very special provisions would have to be made for the cedars and their rejuvenation. But it seemed to be a tremendous mountain and there might be room for other things besides cedars.
“It is big enough,” he said sadly. “It’s big enough! That’s the trouble. Butyou know, anything else, particularly sheep or cows, wold spoil it. They wouldn’t belong, It should all be recovered with cedars from end to end, as it once was.” […]
“I am sure it will be all right,” [I said]. “We’ll see that your cedars are all right anyway.”
Extracts from Laurens van der Post, Venture to the Interior. Chatto and Windus, London, 1952. (Queen’s Classics edition 1962). 116-127.
It seemed that Mlanje, from the forestry point o view, was unique. There was no other place like it in Africa or the world. It was indeed a world of its own, a very ancient, lost world of trees that grew nowhere else. These trees, he [Quillan] said had been given the name of cedars, Mlanje cedars, because they looked to the uninitiated eyes like cedar. But they were not cedars at all. They were a conifer of a unique and very ancient sort, had their roots in the most antique of antique Africa botanical worlds.[1 I would see them for myself soon, in fact I would smell them even before I saw them. Their scent, night and day, filled the air on the mountain; filled it with a heavy, all-pervasive but delicious scent of a lost world; of a time and a place that existed
 The Mulanje cedar is Widdringtonia whytei, an evergreen conifer, native to Malawi (former Nyasaland) and found only on the Mulanje Massif altitudes of 1,830-2,550 metres. It has been renamed the “Mulanje cypress” to better reflect the taxonomic group it belongs to. It is a fast-growing, pioneer species and will usually grow back quickly after fire. However, its durability and resistance to insects and fungi made it in great demand for most of the 20th century for construction, driving it to the point of extinction.
Few trees have had a greater global impact than the mulberry. As the sole food of the Bombyx silkworm, the leaves of the mulberry have brought prosperity to all those who learned the art of silk production over the past 5000 years. In this beautifully illustrated new book, Mulberry, I also chart the many other contributions the tree has made to civilization, from the first paper, to exquisite furniture and even modern medicine. And the blood-red fruit of the black mulberry has graced royal tables and inspired poets for centuries. Mulberry is published by Reaktion Books on 11 November 2019.
One of the best-known veteran mulberry trees in England is the so-called ‘Milton Mulberry’ in the Fellows’ Garden at Christ’s College, University of Cambridge, which Peter Coles wrote about in December 2018 (read the article here). The tree was planted in 1609, most likely alongside several others, when Christ’s (like nearby Emmanuel, Jesus and Corpus Christi colleges) decided to support James I’s project to start an English silk industry, with mulberry groves to feed the silkworms.
The veteran tree at Christ’s has come to be associated with one of the College’s most illustrious students, the poet and man of letters, John Milton (1608 – 1674). Milton was a student at Christ’s from 1625 and graduated in 1629, receiving his Masters’ degree a few years later, in 1632. The tree would have been at least 20 years old when the young poet knew it and already a decent size, but hardly impressive enough to inspire poetry. Most of the major works for which Milton is known (such as Paradise Lost) were published much later.
The King’s sericulture project soon ran out of steam, though, leaving behind a number of veteran mulberries up and down the country, which have survived from the 17th century and mostly used to produce copious quantities of jam.
The Christ’s College ‘Milton Mulberry’ is not the only mulberry tree to be associated with the poet though.
A ‘Milton’ Mulberry in Stowmarket
In the early 17th century Milton was a regular guest of his former schoolboy tutor, the Scottish Presbyterian, Reverend Thomas Young, who had been appointed vicar of Stowmarket (Suffolk) in 1628. Young was one of the founders of a group of five controversial Puritan clergymen, going by the name of Smectymnuus (an acronym based on their names), which Milton later defended in his own pamphlets. The garden of the Old Vicarage (since renamed Milton House) boasts a splendid black mulberry tree, which could date back to this time, or be a descendant of an older tree.
In Victorian times, when Reverend A.G.H. Hollingsworth was vicar of Stowmarket, he apparently made as much as ten gallons of wine using fruit from the tree. The tree was blown over in 1939, but mulberries are tremendous survivors and are able to re-grow from flattened trunks and branches that touch the ground – a process known as ‘layering’.
We will never know if Milton had a hand in planting the tree, but its association with the poet is ingrained in local history. Milton House is now home to Stowmarket Council, with the mulberry featuring on its website.
A ‘Milton Mulberry’ in Chalfont St Giles
In 1665, to escape the bubonic plague that was ravaging London, Milton moved with his wife and daughter to a modest cottage found for him by his former student, Thomas Ellwood, in Chalfont St Giles (Buckinghamshire). It is here that he wrote his major works, Paradise Lostand Paradise Regained.Built in the late 16th century, and now known as Milton’s Cottage, it has a Grade II listed historic garden and, until recently, featured an 80 year-old mulberry tree, grown from a cutting from the Christ’s College tree.
This tree had to be felled a few years ago, but a cutting was taken from it and planted out near to the car park, where it is now flourishing. The cottage is now a museum, displaying various artefacts associated with Milton, including early editions of Paradise Lost.
The Charterhouse ‘Milton Mulberry’
Another celebrated offspring of the Christ’s Milton Mulberry is the ‘Queen’s Mulberry’ in Preacher’s Court at Charterhouse in London (see our previous article here). The tree is thought to have been planted around 1840. There are six other mulberries at Charterhouse, but their provenance is not certain.
The Drovers Wood ‘Milton’ mulberry
As part of celebrations of the 400th anniversary of John Milton’s birth, a cutting from the mulberry tree at Christ’s College, Cambridge was planted at the Woodland Trust’s Drovers Wood, in Upper Dreinton, Hereford as part of the Hay Literary Festival. No doubt more cuttings will be taken from the Christ’s college tree, further multiplying ‘Milton’ mulberries – a scion for a scion.
If readers know of other ‘Milton Mulberries’ please let us know.
Canonbury, that sedate corner of urban tranquillity just two miles due north of St Paul’s cathedral, is home to more curiosities than many parts of London. Some are well known, like the delightful, exposed stretch of the New River, a project started in 1602 and completed in 1613, to bring drinking water to central London from the River Lea near Ware in Hertfordshire (see also our article linked to Sir Hugh Myddelton, who oversaw the project).
And then there is Canonbury Tower – a very unusual Tudor brick tower built between 1509 and 1532 by Prior William Bolton of St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield (on the site of St Bartholomew-the-Great). The Tower was part of his redesign of the extensive 13th century Canonbury Manor, which belonged to the canons of St Batholomew’s. This once covered all of today’s Canonbury Place, including a large park and gardens, complete with an octagonal house – another Canonbury curiosity, which can still be see today in Alwyne Villas.
But few are aware that, hidden in a private garden behind the tower and the adjacent Canonbury House, is a sprawling, gnarled, black mulberry tree that might turn out to be one of the oldest in London.
A 16th century skyscraper
Canonbury Tower is fascinating in its own right. When Henry VIII seized Canonbury Manor during his Dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s, it eventually passed down to his First Minister, Thomas Cromwell, who oversaw the Dissolution. Cromwell lived here for a year before his fall from grace and execution in 1540. In 1570 the Mansion passed to Sir John Spencer, a favourite of Elizabeth I, who became Lord Mayor in 1590. In the early 1600s, Sir Francis Bacon lived here and, later, Oliver Goldsmith.
The Tower has some extraordinary carved fireplaces, Tudor cubbyholes and a dark, oak-panelled room with a few remnants of the paraphernalia of freemasonry. Much of the Masonic symbolism added to the wood carvings and decorations was commissioned by Spencer, who was a prominent Rosicrucian. On Spencer’s death in 1610, the mansion passed down to his son-in-law, William Compton, Earl of Northampton, who had eloped with Spencer’s daughter, Eliza, who was hiding in a bread basket lowered from an upstairs window. The Manor has passed down in the Spencer-Compton family ever since and is still owned by the Marquess of Northampton.
Spencer was a friend of Francis Bacon, the philosopher and parliamentarian under both Elizabeth I and James I, who came to live at Canonbury Manor from 1616-25. Like Spencer, Bacon was a Rosicrucian, and the first Grand Master of modern English Freemasonry. The Tower became the home of the Masonic Research Centre from 1998-2012.
The oldest mulberry in London?
Did any of these illustrious early residents plant the mulberry tree? If so, it could be anywhere between 400 and 500 years old, placing it in the ranks of the oldest surviving mulberries anywhere in England – and certainly the oldest within walking distance of the City. There are very old mulberries in the ancient orchard at Syon House, which are also thought to be 16th or at least 17th century. Old mulberries were noted there in 1548 by William Turner, the botanist and apothecary to Lord Somerset who inherited the Bridgettine monastery after the Dissolution and built a house there. But, although well inside the M25, Syon House is in Brentford, 13 miles away from the City. Meanwhile, another very old mulberry at Charlton House, which is thought to date from 1611, is 7 miles from the City.
Hollow and split trunk at Canonbury
Could the Canonbury mulberry really be Tudor and as old, or older, than the Syon House trees? It is impossible to tell for sure, without invasive analysis. But it does share many of the hallmarks of a very old tree: It has collapsed and much of the trunk is lying horizontally. Branches trailing along the ground have started to grow upwards like new trunks, some distance from the original bole. The core of this bole is hollow and split, with the familiar burrs of a black mulberry, making it very difficult to measure its girth to assess its age.
There is a black mulberry at Hatfield House that was possibly planted by John Tradescant when he was Head Gardener from 1610-15, but may well pre-date him by fifty years, as it has also been attributed to Princess Elizabeth, when she lived there before becoming queen . The Hatfield mulberry, though has been pollarded and, while hollow, is squat and not leaning or lying down. Meanwhile, Christ’s College, Cambridge has records of purchasing and planting black mulberry trees in 1608. One of these – the celebrated ‘Milton mulberry’ – survives on a mound in the Fellow’s Garden and shares several features with the Canonbury tree.
There is, then, every possibility that the Canonbury mulberry is very old – the walled garden where the tree stands features in old plans of the Manor. Prior Bolton seems to have been familiar with mulberries and may have planted one or more at St Bartholomew’s Priory, which he rebuilt. There are records of a very old mulberry tree still surviving in the 19th century, adjacent to St Bartholomew-the-Great (with remains of the Priory) and some evidence for a mulberry garden next to the Infirmary. There is a fine mulberry tree there today, although not more than 100 years old, but it does symbolise the ancient connection.
Another possibility is that Francis Bacon planted the Canonbury mulberry. Bacon was a cousin of Robert Cecil, son of William Cecil, the powerful Lord Burghley in the reign of Elizabeth I. Robert was responsible for rebuilding the Tudor Hatfield House and gardens in the Jacobean style. James I had persuaded Robert to accept the Old Palace and manor at Hatfield in exchange for the splendid Theobalds, which Robert had inherited from his father. We know that around 1611 Robert sent his gardener, John Tradescant, abroad to bring back mulberry saplings. He apparently planted around 500 at Hatfield, as part of James’s sericulture project, though only one survives today – and that is a corner feature of the Tudor knot garden, not apparently a vestige of a plantation. Robert Cecil and Bacon were not exactly on friendly terms, but Tradescant may have had a mulberry going spare for Bacon to plant at Canonbury – if there wasn’t one there already….
Thanks to Nicola and Gavin Ralston for inviting me to look at the tree. Nicola is writing her own account of the tree for the Canonbury Society, due out in March-April 2018.
Morus nigra at London College of Fashion, now over 100 years old.
Last week I finally got to see the black mulberry I’d heard about from several people, located behind the London College of Fashion in Lime Grove, Shepherd’s Bush. The College is opposite what was he BBC’s Lime Grove studios for years until they were demolished and replaced with housing.
Pablo, the Spanish gardener for LCF, took me into the courtyard at the back of the main building and proudly showed me the 12 metre high black mulberry, leaning at a slight angle. It produced masses of fruit every year.
From archive photos it looks as though it was planted in about 1904, as a sapling, — perhaps already 10 years old at the time.
The mulberry in 1915, eleven years after the London School of Building opened in 1904.
Pablo told me he had succeeded in growing a mulberry sapling from seed – the only one that germinated from the 25 he planted. After showing it to me, and admitting that he didn’t have the space to grow it himself…. he gave it to me! So I am now the proud owner of a Morus nigra, about 3 years old! Thanks Pablo!
Pablo with the 3 year-old mulberry tree he has grown from seed from the tree at London College of Fashion.