Wilmington

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.

‘I was just thinking the same,’ I replied. 

Back in the fifth century, as the sapling’s roots had taken hold, the Roman Empire was beating a retreat. For the first 600 years of its life, Anglo-Saxon pagan ceremonies of death, rebirth and vows took place beneath its boughs, and with so few surviving fragments of written texts to bear witness, this tree is the keeper of many stories and secrets.

‘Sorry for interrupting your meditative contemplation,’ the woman said. 

‘No problem at all, I was about to go for a wander,’ I replied. 

‘Ah, well now, come and take a look at this gate,’ she suggested, inviting me to follow her with a subtle jut of her shoulder. Faded scraps of colourful ribbon tied to the tree’s branches fluttered in the breeze as we picked our way through the churchyard. Her walking stick searched out steady ground until we reached the waist-high wrought iron gate.

Hidden by ivy, the gate opened out onto a flint-strewn path across a glorious field of yellow oilseed rape in full flower. The sky was cornflower blue, and to our left, the Long Man looked down from his vantage point up on the hill.

For half a mile or so, we walked and talked as skylarks dipped and dived around us. Jenny told me about her lifelong career in education and asked me why I was out walking alone.

‘I love people. Everyone’s got their own story,’ she said.

Not so long ago, Jenny could often be found hiking the hills of Sussex, but as she told me, ‘it’s just not possible anymore – I’m under no illusion about that’. 

The afternoon was set to be a scorcher, so she thought it best to head back to the shade. 

‘You carry on, though,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s a lovely hideaway hamlet just over the brow – I used to go there all the time.’ 

‘Thanks, Jenny. You take good care,’ I replied.

I headed further along the path, stopping now and again to pick up interesting-looking sherds of flint. I watched as Jenny stepped back into the churchyard and out of sight. And that was us – seemingly off in different directions, but with a connection I will always remember.