I was sitting on a wooden bench in a churchyard, gazing up into the gnarled canopy of a 1,600-year-old yew tree. Swathed in thick, rusty chains and supported by wooden poles, it still felt strong, like the chains and struts could perhaps be set aside, if only for a while.

‘Imagine what that tree’s seen,’ a woman said, appearing alongside me on the old brick path.

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