As a child I spent many happy hours sat, book in hand, under the cool, shady canopy of an ancient apple tree in my parents’ garden. My slightly more mischievous brother, Murray, completely disinterested in Blyton’s exciting adventures of Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy the dog, scrambled his way up and into its twisting branches to relieve the tree of some of its scrumptious, rose and green coloured bounty. Technically, it wasn’t scrumping as the tree was ours, alongside a towering oak and a prolific pear.
From my formative years, I quickly realised the importance of trees, both within and outside of
