The atmospheric oakwoods of the Lake District are home to a hidden population of small-leaved lime trees. Their immense longevity and ability to move through the landscape at a pace beyond our reckoning makes these charismatic trees a physical link to the Neolithic wildwood.

The landscape of Britain has been almost completely shaped by humans and we don’t have much ‘wild’ left on our little island. Although they may feel natural, our best and oldest woods usually exist where a local industry kept them alive through its demand for a constant supply of fuel and other wood products. The ancient…

I spent a few tough but happy winters helping to conserve ancient oak trees by carrying out sensitive pruning work. During a rare summer climb to check on the progress of one giant pollard I emerged from the crown to discover a hidden tree-top spectacle.

I do my best to climb the rope rather than the tree, pulling down and shuffling the locking Prussic knot up, twining the cord between my feet for a bit of extra impetus. I want to avoid scuffing the moss that envelops the trunk and bigger limbs with pillowy gardens, or the lichens that decorate…

After a time Johan beckons us out of the cleft fence at the front of the smallholding and down the road to the graveyard. We pass half a dozen other houses, each in their own small plot of orchard, veg patch, hay, bees, maybe a little corral for livestock to spend the night. Chickens pecking in the dry earth around the most heavily used areas at the front of the summer kitchens; neighbours sat out peeling potatoes, or washing up, or chopping firewood, each with a wisecrack or word of advice for Johan, it seems, all of which he answers…

By the time the fires near Manchester hit the headlines we’d already tackled a decent-sized blaze. It was my first, and I found that the situation could change in an instant — and that it’s really, really hard work.

I dropped round the corner of the little valley and everything changed. Flames three or four metres high were whipping along one of the steep banks and half a dozen rangers were chasing them across the burnt track of the fire, whacking relentlessly with their beaters — like heavy rubber door mats on long broom handles — while a six-wheeled ATV…

The oak leaf is the size of both my hands together, and we’re dwarfed by this ridiculous place. The largest trees are all species we’re used to seeing, but half as big again; it’s a familiar space but on an entirely unfamiliar scale, a psychedelic twist on the woods at home. The forest stretches away further than we can imagine and we’re under strict instructions not to wander off. …

You’d think there would be lots of songs about trees but there are surprisingly few, in my library at least. Plenty of songs mention trees, but to a tree nerd like me it’s usually in a pretty shoddy, vague manner. I don’t know too many where trees are an integral feature; of those where they are, Grandaddy’s Underneath the Weeping Willow is probably my favourite.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYeNZkqCWHw

There are only seven or eight lines to the song, but they have the power of haiku in creating the impression of a bigger story of both the tree and singer Jason Lytle’s emotional…

Some of my most memorable wildlife encounters have been on the most miserable and unpromising days, like this close call with a killer on a grey south London morning.

The walk across the downs is mundane: dull green and monotonous where I know it’s bright with wildflowers in July. Our flock of Jacob’s sheep stand damp and bemused, disappointed tourists misled by the brochure. I don’t help matters by gently getting them moving, checking for limpers. A quick head count. The dog walkers too seem like they’d rather be anywhere else, with hoods up and shoulders hunched, phones clutched to…

Horse logging may seem like an evocative glimpse of a time that’s passed — but this sensitive method of timber extraction remains highly relevant in the conservation management of ancient woods like Spring Park.

They arrive in an enormous, ancient lorry, painted silver and red with one of the big steel lockers tied up with baler twine and the matching one on the other side missing entirely. Dan follows the first stocky horse to emerge, Rita, through our — fairly urban — yard. I drift out after them and, despite all my attempts to manage my expectations, it’s like being…