Showing posts with label Willows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Willows. Show all posts

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Local patch 21

As it weaves through the storybox of the Levels, willow (Salix) is part of this ancient landscape. Preserved deep in the peat, willows have been discovered along the tracks and trails of prehistory. For as long as we have needed something to put stuff in - willow has been woven into baskets. It has its own language: spiling and stripple and withy. And you find it in unlooked for places: under the bearskins of the Guardsmen; transporting racing pigeons; batting at Lords; catching eel and lobster. Living willow sculptures grace our schoolyards and support our river banks. As velvety charcoal it is used by artists. Ground into tea or aspirin tablets it is effective against pain and fever. We can sit on it and shelter under it. And at the end of days, it can carry us to the grave and cradle us in the earth. We, too, are woven in willow.

The Somerset willow harvest starts in November, as soon as the first frosts have stripped the leaves from the stems. Fresh green willow can be used by artists and garden designers to make their living domes and tunnels and wigwams. Other willow is graded, dried and stored in bundles. The brown keeps its bark, the buff is boiled and stripped. Spring harvested willow is stripped and sold as white willow - the finest and most expensive. 

We gathered nervously at Musgrove Willows on a bright, raw November morning and listened to the safety briefing: the secateurs are very sharp; the withies are long and whippy. Be careful you don't poke someone in the eye or slip on the cuttings. Who knew willow weaving was so dangerous? We smiled encouragingly at each other. It feels brave to try a new skill: children do it all the time but somehow, during the hurry of adult life, we forget to try new things. Our tutor was confident and clear and generous with his help and advice. Gradually we found a rhythm. It is a lovely material to work with. Forgiving. Natural. We tied and twisted, went with the flow. The workshop was quiet, filled with sunlight and thoughts. We bent to collect bundles of 6' brown withies and our spirals grew from the floor. The weave got tighter and neater as our movements became more automatic. The butt goes here, the tip goes there, follow the line, this one under that one ... 
Our thoughts stretch and twine with the rhythm and the movement. We are woven in the willow.



Sunday, 22 October 2017

Local patch 19

O open up your heartwood to us will you, willow, 
show your deep within, your rough without, 
your water-brushing bough, your shoot, your grain, your knot?
(Macfarlane & Morris, 2017)

Back home, with our feet firmly on the ground again, I drive across the misty Somerset Levels. Her pollard willows are a feature of this flat iron landscape. Traces of the ancient craft survive and willow beds are tended and harvested for fences and hampers and coffins. It is a renewable, sustainable raw material. The stubby trunks line the ditches and rhynes that march across the levels and moors. They sprout bright new growth: gelled up hair, standing in surprise. 

And between the willows, small gangs of 'ghostly swirling surging whirling melting' starlings (Macfarlane & Morris, 2017) are arrowing to their feeding or roosting grounds. They are gathering on the wires and in the trees, expectant. 
Let the murmurations begin!

(Macfarlane, R & Morris, J, 2017, The Lost Words, Penguin Random House UK)