Exactly what is it about a forest that awakens that feeling of pure enchantment? The muffled silence, the coolness, the dampness, the light that is blocked and fragmented and softened… There is the life in the branches above you; the soft carpet under your feet built up through the seasons of many years, a sponge that harbours life: insects, reptiles, mammals, plants, fungi… (And, sigh, snails…– Eds.)
And the most wonderful thing of all? Nobody comes along to scatter fertiliser to sustain these various forms of life.
A forest takes care of herself.
THE GARDENS of my life have always – unintentionally and unplanned – veered in the direction of a forest. Fortunately this has always been possible, because there has been space, the weather was moderate and without devastating extremes, the rainfall slightly more predictable, and the soil deep and rich in humus.
It was here in Koringberg that we finally realised what a privilege it is to have good soil. Surrounded by grain fields, the town lies diagonally at the foot of a hill, and the topsoil is clayey and meager. Just below it lies the shale, layers and layers of it…
Rain is a major event here, and the groundwater is brackish and unusable. In summer the sun beats down mercilessly, causing all creation to wilt. Our prospect for a forest therefore seemed bleak.
The property around the almost 100-year-old house was bare and dusty, filled with old car wrecks and other junk, a wasteland where even the weeds were giving up.
The two trees in the yard looked sad, as did the empty fishpond where we came upon a barbel taking its last gasps in the mud.
Years of neglect meant that the trunks of the fig tree on one side of the house had split and decayed. The woodpeckers had hollowed out the main trunk to the extent that the poor tree’s life had literally hung by a thread
