From a little way off, there is nothing remarkable about this rotting tree stump. Gently melded into the bank, it’s a bulging lump with a toupee of moss. But look closer and there is so much life here. Feather mosses overhang in a protective cornice, shielding the interior from rain. Wood sorrel is spreading by slender rhizomes through the spongy green topping, leaves folded back like little tents from the frost. They have the lemon sharpness of oxalic acid, making them popular with those who forage for woodland salad.
The mossy covering supports other plants too. There are whippy stems of wild raspberry. They are thin and wiry now, but as the tree stump decays they will gain in strength. There are lacy seedlings of herb robert, which give off a mousy smell as I brush against them.
Dog’s mercury is muscling in too, with its pale green flowers in bud, a sign, along with the sorrel, of the length of time these woods have been here. For this is semi-ancient woodland, lit up by wild garlic in spring, by primrose, moschatel, saxifrage and cow-wheat.
I peer into the decaying heart of the tree stump. It’s an 18th-century grotto, its roof decorated not with shells or minerals but with silver lichens, dangling threads of roots and crumbling stalactites of wood. It’s a seashore cave retreating into darkness, where the wood crumbles and fragments as I reach in with an ungloved hand.
Broad buckler ferns hang across the entrance, making green lacy curtains across the dark interior. A startled bank vole scurries down into its nest, the entrance hole so well hidden among moss and leaves that I hadn’t spotted it before.
Come here in a few years and all you will see is a hint of its existence, a low hummock of greenery as the long dead tree relaxes back to become part of the woodland soil. Already there are winged seeds of sycamore lying amid the darkly wet leafmould, ready to split open and send out anchoring roots; then tree will grow on decomposed tree, and the whole cycle will begin again.
