%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
|
Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Forests New England is all about trees. They cover the landscape in cloaking forests, invade the towns, supply the wood that builds the houses and their leaves define the seasons. They are winning the battle against humankind for I read somewhere that, in many areas in the North-east, the trees are reclaiming farms abandoned by those who preferred a softer lifestyle down South. What surprises me about the trees is their variety. Looking at photographs of the forests in Fall, it is easy to presume that these are deciduous forests, beeches, birches and maples, many of them familiar to Europeans. And so they are, but the pine rules this land too, combining in alliance with the seasonal trees in their claim to the land. There are dark pine forests climbing the slopes of the hills and mountains and firs intermingle with the deciduous trees of the lower regions. Yet these forests are somehow different from those few left to England. They do not have the height and full, leafy canopy that I am used to; something is missing. I have pondered on this a long time, wondering whether my memory deceived me or whether the trees here, inhabiting so much more an extreme climate than Britain's, have been unable to achieve that uninterrupted green canopy that every English forest creates. But I think I have the answer now. What is missing is the oak. All English forests attain maturity when the oaks win, when their huge and ponderous bulk eclipses all other trees. They become oak forests, mysterious places of gloom and leafy halls, and this is what I miss in New England. There are oaks in America; at least, they are called oaks, presumably because of some relation to the English oaks that the early colonists knew so well. But they are not the oaks of home - none of them attain the size and grandeur of the ancient English oak. And they do not rule the forests to become the sole creator of the very definition of "forest". Further North, I am sure the pines begin to dominate and these mixed forests of New England give way to the endless evergreens of Canada. But here variety rules and the forests are light and airy, with dappled sunshine sprinkling the leaf litter floor. It is easy to imagine Mohawk and Mohican, Iroquois and Algonquin, hunting through the forest glades, tomahawk and bow in hand, for these forests are as American as the English forest is European. It is not that New England disappoints in any way; merely that it is different from what I had expected. In many ways, the surprise has been how English it is, the narrow, winding roads, the quiet, reserved people, the constantly-changing weather. But that which defines New England in our minds, the forest, turns out to be more American than ever I had imagined. Word count: 479 |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
