One day, when I was around 10 years old, I was to be found clinging to a branch of a conker tree. Being scared of heights, I was terrified. I was about six feet off the ground. Dan, an older kid who I idolised somewhat, was looking at me. “You’re going to struggle when you’re older,” he said, “’cos you might grow that tall.” A fair point. Above us, a distant figure flitted about in the highest reaches of the tree. This was my fearless younger brother, showing me how it was done. Humiliating, really.
That horse chestnut tree still stands behind my parents’ house. The other day this memory came back to me as I took in its beauty. I climbed over their garden fence, and through 10 metres of thick nettles and stuff, to stand in the damp, clear space beneath the tree’s canopy. The branch I had clung to didn’t seem to have changed in the 40 years since. I rested my head against it to confirm I had indeed grown as tall as Dan had predicted.
Before I knew it, I had somehow swung my way up and edged along the thickening branch to the trunk of the tree. Everything was slippy after some rain; this was idiotic. I was now at twice my height but pressed on. Halfway up, bang in the middle of the whole magnificent edifice, I stopped, looked down, and felt a bit sick. I clung on a bit tighter, surely leaving my fingerprints in the trunk, and wondered what to do.
That decision was soon taken out of my hands as a clap of thunder crashed overhead. I slid and fell and grappled my way to the ground. I felt a bit foolish, but what of it? At the age of 53 and a quarter, I had finally climbed a tree.
