Bog Myrtle & Peat

Every little boy dreams of swinging a wrecking ball through a school or gymnasium. Well, at least I did. There is something innately appealing to men of all ages about really wrecking something, or,  in scots vernacular “getting in amongst” it. Rockstars throw televisions out of hotel windows, pensioners put cats in bins and I cut down trees. Thankfully, I have cause to.

I mentioned a few weeks ago that a small stand of pines has reached maturity and needs to be felled before it starts damaging the fences and dykes around it. It can then be planted with black grouse friendly tree species and the process can start all over again. After a grim week’s work, I set off up to the Chayne this evening with a chainsaw to let off some steam.

I was trained to cut down trees by the local agricultural college, but my qualification covers me to work on nothing with a base of more than nine inches. Bit by bit over the past five years, I have upped the ante until I now feel capable of dealing with barky collosi that would make my chainsaw instructor’s eyes pop out. Today’s project was an ancient larch, clearly visible from over four miles. It seems to have spent the last ten years sagging further and further over the farm track until every gust of wind seems likely to tip it off balance.

Black grouse do like to feed on larch buds in the spring, but this monster could not be allowed to stand in the way of progress. There are several other larches in the vicinity, and the new trees I plan to plant are sure to be of more use than that old boy ever was. The general rule I have learned about black grouse habitat management is that the birds like things to be done, and it often doesn’t really seem to matter what. Plough a field, fell a tree, graze a moor, dig a pit – the only thing black grouse don’t like is when things are left the same, and land becomes unmanaged, neglected and dull.

I set about it with great aplomb. You know you’re felling a tree correctly when you have to spit out sawdust every few moments because your mouth is open and your teeth are bared. After several exploratory cuts, the brute moved and it occurred to me that I had made no provision for an escape route. If it was going to fall in any other direction than that which I had planned, I was a goner. And given my usually unpredictable felling directions, I didn’t fancy my chances.

I cleared three possible escape routes and prepared to scarper as the saw pushed through the final few inches to the hinge. With a shocking bang, the gargantuan vegetable slipped forward, picked up speed and raced downwards towards the bog, burying four of its topmost branches nearly two feet into the mud. Thankfully, it had fallen as I had intended, arching over the dyke, bridging the track and resting on the brow of a hill thirty yards out. After it was down, the whole item rocked and quivered like a dying cape buffalo.

It was destruction on an appropriately grand scale, and I sat down to inspect the damage with a smile on my face.