Things We Should Do Better

Confident in my charismatic leadership, I set off last weekend in search of the largest box woods in Britain. I was inspired by a book called Hidden Trees of Britain: A Regional Guide to the Country’s Secret Treescapes by Archie Miles. It did not occur to me before we started that Archie Miles might with good reason have described these trees as “hidden”.

Looking back at the description given by Mr. Miles, I must admit he does give some indication that these box trees may not be easy to find: “viewed from below, the hills don’t immediately give away their secrets”. Before we set off, I did not pay much attention to this discouraging remark. My attention was drawn by such promising descriptions as: “the vast majority of trees densely pack the steep valley sides”. Phrases such as “vast majority” and “densely pack”, along with the impressive designation, “Britain’s biggest box woods”, led me to assume that box trees would be found in some numbers.

We drove to Happy Valley in the Chiltern Hills. I felt that Happy Valley was not an auspicious name for a place of adventure. If we had been in a story, the gods of narrative irony would have made sure we met an unhappy fate there.

My plan was to park on Coombe Hill, look at the view, and then walk over to Pulpit Wood, where we would come upon Britain’s biggest (yet still hidden) box wood. I had never seen a box tree, but we used to have a box hedge in our back yard that my rabbit liked to hide beneath, and I always wished I could shrink into a tiny person and climb among the gnarled stems. Here was my chance!

We parked the car and wandered through some beautiful woods until we came upon the spectacular view over the Vale of Aylesbury. My boyfriend announced that it was his intention to enjoy a walk in the woods and not to have any fixed purpose or destination. I was not sure what to make of this declaration in light of the fact that it was my stated aim to find the largest box wood in Britain, so I decided to ignore it.

We then set off in search of Pulpit Wood. I had a detailed map, but there were so many footpaths criss-crossing each other that it was not always easy to figure out which one we were on. My boyfriend wanted to use his phone’s internet capabilities to pinpoint our location and give us directions. With difficulty I persuaded him to abandon this intrusive technology and do it the old fashioned way. I suggested that his phone was unlikely to give us the sort of detail we needed: “You are on the footpath that is slightly south of the footpath you want to be on, so you should go uphill about thirty feet to the other path and carry on along that one until you come to the next fork, where there may or may not be a sign, and then go right.”

Our footpath took us down a steep hill (what goes down must come up, I thought gloomily) and across a quiet meadow. As it happened, this meadow lay on the grounds of Chequers, the country residence of the prime minister. We were greeted with an odd sight: a collection of heavy-duty security cameras at the gate to the meadow. There was a low fence along the side of the footpath with stern warnings against trespassing. Soon we found ourselves on the inside of the driveway that led up to Chequers. Crossing the drive, we saw that the heavy iron gates to the outside road were closed and fortified with stout bollards. These seemed beside the point, given that anyone could walk right through the grounds on the public footpath.

As we walked past the house, I found myself ranting about the Clintons and all other political figures. My boyfriend envisioned a situation in which Gordon Brown became my mother’s boyfriend and moved into our house and offered to cook me bacon in the morning, to my audible dismay. I began to wonder whether the microphones hidden in the fenceposts would consider our conversation treasonous.

After a couple of miles we came to the place I thought should be Pulpit Wood. The problem with identifying it for certain was that there were a great many wooded enclosures, and it was hard to tell exactly which one was Pulpit Wood. We went into the one I guessed was right. It took me a while to be sure. For one thing, there were no box trees in evidence.

Finally I found a sign indicating that the hill fort was 50 meters away. I knew from the map that Pulpit Wood was the site of a Bronze Age hill fort. At last I had my confirmation that we were indeed in the right wood.

I took this as cause for rejoicing, but my boyfriend chose that moment for rebellion.

“So where are the box trees, then?” he asked sulkily.

“We have to look for them,” I said. “I feel they are very near.”

“I don’t want to walk around for hours for no reason,” he said.

“It’s not for no reason. We are searching for Britain’s biggest box wood!”

“I just came out for a walk in the woods,” he protested, as if I had misled him.

“We are walking in the woods. How is this not what you wanted?”

“But there’s no point. There are no box trees.”

“It’s like a treasure hunt. We have to discover them,” I said.

“But there is nothing at the end!”

“I have the strawberries in my bag,” I said, “and I will give them to you when we find the box trees.”

Strawberries were not enough of a reward to lift his spirits. I led him on, and he followed miserably. We passed a young couple who looked miserable and stared at the ground. They were not dressed for a hike and did not say hello. The girl had pale pink hair and glasses. I decided they were Polish and they did not know how to prepare for a walk in the English countryside, with waterproofs and umbrellas.

My boyfriend ran off the path into a grove of trees. “Here they are! Here are the box trees!”

“Those are pine tree,” I said.

“How do you know? You’ve never seen a box tree.”

“I have seen a pine tree, though.”

By then I began to worry that we were seriously lost. I had been taking random paths without remembering where we had come from. I had absolutely no idea where we would emerge from Pulpit Wood. In truth, I did not much care, so long as we found the box woods, but I knew that my boyfriend would care. Besides, he had a cold.

“I have almost run out of tissues,” he said pleadingly.

“Aha!” I pulled a new pack out of my pocket.

“My back pockets are filled with them,” he said. “I have no room for new ones. It is like a cushion of snot when I sit down.”

I gave him a plastic bag and begged him never again to mention his cushion of snot.

By now I realized there were serious problems with planning a woodland adventure using a coffee table book. I admitted defeat and left the wood as soon as we came to a gate. As luck would have it, we emerged in exactly the right point. Soon we were crossing Chequers again and engaging in mildly treasonous conversation for the benefit of the hidden microphones. We passed the unfriendly Polish couple. Then they turned around and walked the other way. Either they were lost, or they were Eastern European spies who had received inadequate training.

“I think they are British teenagers,” said my boyfriend.

“No way,” I said. “Definitely Polish. Definitely spies. What other reason could there be for the pink wig?”

The ascent of the final hill is best skipped over, as it did not do wonders for our relationship (steep hills and conversations about in-laws do not mix). When we reached the parking lot, two police cars turned out of a gate, followed by a jeep with two agents in bulletproof vests who got out and shut the gate. Perhaps the hidden microphones in the meadow had encouraged the prime minister to run off for his first date with my mother.

If only my charisma had been in working order that day, I am sure I would have led us to the discovery of at least one box tree. I have cause to wonder, however, whether the “secret treescapes” mentioned in the Hidden Trees book actually exist, or whether they are a poetic elaboration of Mr. Miles’s, invented for the purposes of decorating the sitting rooms of sedentary Britons. It seems he did not expect an intrepid American to take up the challenge of verifying his secrets.

Next in my sights, also described in Hidden Trees, are the Vale of Aylesbury black poplars: “the greatest gathering of one of our rarest native broadleaf trees”. Should I put the emphasis on the greatness of the gathering or the rarity of the trees? Is Mr. Miles up to his old tricks? We shall see.