Visiting the yew at Waverley Abbey

 'No fucking about now', said the Northerner in a stern and northern way as I fastened my seatbelt. 'Just straight there and straight back, ok?' 

But a 340-mile round trip driving one of the offspring back to near Brighton in dreary midwinter's not much fun without at least a bit of a treat. And I don't mean an M&S Wensleydale and carrot chutney sandwich from Chieveley Services either (though they are my preferred fare on long drives). So we made the outward journey shorter, though a little longer timewise, by coming off the M4 at Reading and taking the A33 through the top right-hand corner of Hampshire to Waverley Abbey in Surrey, which has a nice tree. 

I barely know the Home Counties, but as I drove past a turning called Old Compton Lane, this patch at least began to look familiar, and I wondered if I'd been there before. Could we be anywhere near Watts Gallery and Lady Mary's Chapel, not forgetting Guildford Cathedral, which I'd visited with poet friends a considerable number of years ago? And godawfully charming Godalming? It was only when I got home that I could look up the locations, and yes, we were little more than a stone's throw from all of these spots, which is the trouble with letting Google Maps plan your journey, instead of poring over an atlas: the places are more difficult to join up in your memory. 

Anyway. We were on a mission to see the yew tree that won the Woodland Trust's UK Tree of the Year competition in 2022, and if there were a few mediaeval eccelsiastical ruins to take in at the same time, so much better. It had even stopped raining, more or less, and there were plenty of red kites about, which was a bonus. 

Our route to the yew and the ruins took us along the side of a picturesque man-made lake, which, the map later suggested, is fed by the nearby River Wey. The skies were stormy with alternating scuds of rain and sun.

We also passed Waverley Abbey House, for which the moody Abbey ruins, along with the lake, became a landscape feature in its grounds, but which is of much less interest to me. 

So, yes, the first Abbey in the country founded by the Cisterian religious order in 1128, and extant until 1536, when, inevitably, it was trashed on the orders of Henry VIII during the Disillusion of the Monasteries, as my daughter put it. 

The vaulted refectory

A high water marker, set at waist height, and inscribed 16th September 1968, the date of the Great Flood in the south-east

lots of graffiti in the refectory

goose fly-past

the monks' dormitory

The yew tree postdates the dissolution of the monastery, and is believed to be nearly 500 years old. 

Because there are so many more ancient yews than this merely venerable (though very pleasingly-shaped) tree, I wonder if it's the setting that won the competition for the Waverley yew. We know parts of the Abbey were demolished rather than left to fall, as much of its stone was used in other, nearby buildings, so the yew could have been planted, by person or bird, on the razed walls of the Abbey Church shortly afterward its destruction - and given the species' connection with spiritual and religious places, what a powerful symbol its flourishing is. 

The abbey church was huge, by the way: right up to the furthermost walls in this photo.

It strikes me, looking at the list of trees that have won the various Tree of the Year competitions, that triumph is no guarantee of survival. Some of the trees that are nominated are included because they're in danger of being felled and it's a good way of drawing attention to their plight. Of these some still stand, like the Brimmon Oak in Wales - I remember signing a petition to save that one. But the Cubbington Pear, which was England's Tree of the Year in 2015, was felled in 2020 (on my birthday😞) to make way for the HS2 railway line; the Happy Man Tree, which won the same competition in 2020, was felled by developers the following year, and the pain caused by the wanton destruction of the 2016 winner, the Sycamore Gap Tree, last September is still felt by many. 

To which we say, may the lovely Waverley yew stand for thousands of years.  

Homesick in Surrey

Surrey is relentlessly picturesque and so in-your-face about it that it made me want to issue it with an Asbo.  Though I did enjoy marauding around Gunter's Wood (second woodpecker of the week) and sitting by Hambledon village duck pond writing the first draft of a poem while waiting for my guided tour around Oakhurst Cottage.

Which was equally picturesque and furnished with improbably lavish chattels for a labourer's cottage, but we'll let that go. Because how could you not love somewhere that looks like this ...



Luckily for me, I had the guide all to myself.  I told him the origin of the phrase 'upper crust' and he told me where 'sleep tight' comes from.  

Then it was on to Godalming, passing on the way the Devil's Punchbowl (oh, the much loved paperbacks of my youth ... )

Once in Godalming I was unaccountably homesick.  Well, maybe not unaccountably - I think this shop display (one of many on a similar theme) had something to do with it, not to mention the lamp posts weighed down by Union flags.  And the plethora of antique shops which made it seem like a red brick tile-hung Cotswolds and are fine if you want to eat a Chippendale chair or bang in a nail with a Dresden Shepherdess.  Final straw for me was the brass band in the bandstand.  It was like being trapped in Trumpton.  

In the Church of St Peter and St Paul, I really liked the twelfth century wall paintings,the 13th century oak coffer, some gorgeous Arts and Crafts tiles, and the fish graffiti, though I resented the fact that the graffiti was mentioned in the guide book because I prefer to find these things for myself.  I also didn't like that the Anglo-Saxon carved stones from the 9th century were in a glass case with very reflective glass, and chairs and a pew were covering a 16th century brass memorial carved with a fine-looking (from what I could glimpse) Elizabethan gentleman.  

Add to this a slight biliousness when I learnt that the beam of the gallows used to execute two alleged murderers in 1818 was reused as a rafter in the spire and I was feeling downright grumpy.

I wandered along the bank of the picturesque River Wey, dotted with picturesquely fluffy ducklings and edged by magnificent but picturesque ornamental weeping willows. Then my eye lit on a wonderfully tussocky scrubby unkempt piece of land - three water meadows, in fact, called the Lammas Lands and still being used to pasture cattle.  This was more like it!

I climbed a stile and squelched across the marshy land.  Oh, it felt good.  I didn't even notice the brass band any more.  A little bit of wildnerness in the heart of Daily Mail land.   

As I left, a stinging nettle kissed me goodbye and I treasured my welt all the way back down the M4, heading towards the sun and home.  Seems my roots are digging down ever deeper.