The square bulk of Chatsworth House came into view, cresting the rise above Edensor, the newly restored gold of the window frames opulent in the late afternoon sun. The large number of stewards in gilets jaunes spread across the surrounding park surprised me. A helicopter was on the way, said the first steward I met. “Who’s on board?” I asked. She shrugged and smiled. “They never tell us anything.” This would be something to see. While I waited, I decided I would visit an old friend.
Many summers ago, standing in the outfield of Chatsworth’s cricket pitch, pretending to play, I had noticed an ancient tree with a fat trunk that many must mistake for an old oak; there are plenty of those at Chatsworth. It was actually a black, or common, alder, most probably among the oldest in the country. Alders ordinarily have a diameter of about half a metre aged 60, when the heartwood starts to go; few make it to 150. The girth of this one measured more than six metres in circumference in 2015, giving it almost a two-metre diameter.
In the charismatic tree stakes, alders barely get a nod. We think of beech and yew and, most of all, oak. Yet these are wondrous trees, with tricks and quirks that make them prosper in unlikely situations, such as marshy, flooded ground where they have evolved to cope with the toxic gases produced in such anaerobic conditions. This makes them a likely ally in an era of climate change and flooding. They live fast and die young, but when cut, the wood becomes iron-hard under water, which is why there are still piles of alder propping up Venice.
This specimen stands in splendid isolation, some distance from the River Derwent, which flows on the other side of the cricket pitch. The colossal trunk is hollow and worm-eaten. Without its leaves, the tree seemed fissured and careworn, like the face of Samuel Beckett, patiently enduring the world. Yet the bark was rough and vibrant, recalling the shoulders of an elephant. As the helicopter roared overhead, I clambered up the tree’s branches and gave it a hug.
