Just a Memory by Anne Frehill

 

Adjacent to our farm, we had three acres of forest. As a child, every year, as Christmas approached, I looked forward to the second Saturday in December. That was the time designated by my father for choosing a Christmas tree, from the hundreds of Norway spruce and Douglas fir trees growing on our land. Except for stormy days, due to the danger of falling branches and trees, I was allowed to go with my father and my friend, Mary, to the forest.

We were dressed in warm coats, woolly hats, thick knitted gloves with matching scarves and wellingtons.
While we longed for snowy weather, I can only recall one year when there was a flurry of snow as we huddled under the shade of the trees.

I preferred the atmosphere in the forest on a winter’s day to that of the other seasons. Fallen pine needles along with twigs and leaves formed a soft carpet as they gradually decayed along with other plant matter. Old branches cracked under our feet as we treaded carefully. Here and there, shafts of light illuminated the surrounding trees for a few moments, making it seem like a heavenly landscape.
The birds, specific to woodland areas, like the jay and chaffinch, high up in the trees, made rustling sounds lending an air of expectancy as we peered upwards at them.
Then there was the unique smell of the forest: an earthy, woody smell of vegetation mixed with a fruity smell that came from the resin released by some of the trees.

In addition to the spruce and fir trees, many other species of tree flourished at the perimeters of the forest where there was plenty of light. These included Scots pine, Sitka spruce, oak, ash, beech and a rowan tree that grew high up on a bank.

My father loved the Rowan tree. Each time that he passed it, he would break into a song, popular at that time. It was called Home Boys Home and was released in 1964 by The Dubliners. His favourite lines were: “Where the Oak and the Ash, and the bonny Rowan tree, Are all growing greener in the old country.”
Of course, being a great storyteller, a skill handed down from his great-aunt, he told us about the folklore of the Rowan tree.

The tree was believed to protect against fairies, witches, evil spirits and malevolent neighbours. Its vivid red berries were said to be a deterrent against all kinds of evildoing, illness and magic.

He believed that chopping down a Rowan tree would bring nothing but bad luck. However, each year he managed to give us both a piece of foliage from the tree “to bring good luck to us” in the forest.
I cherished those times when he stopped to tell us stories about the Rowan. It left me in no doubt about the existence of fairies, witches, elves and all kinds of magical practices.
I was so enchanted by his inimitable tales that I wouldn’t have been surprised if a whole army of fairies or elves had marched by us oblivious to our human antics.
I carried that piece of foliage, pressed against my chest, as if it was a shield against all harm.
My friend, Mary, being two years older, was not quite as gullible. Every time that something stirred in the forest, I clung to the foliage, intending to flash it before any witch on a broomstick, who was brazen enough to cross our paths.

Then we followed my father deeper into the forest.

He surveyed each tree, as a potential Christmas one. But it seemed to me that they all towered into the sky as I marvelled at the lack of daylight in places.
Some trees were planted so closely together that they created a dense canopy that prevented light from reaching the ground.

At such a tender age, shivers used to run up my spine as I half-expected some wild animal like a wolf, that I had seen on television, to emerge from the dense undergrowth.

Continue reading in this year’s Ireland’s Own Christmas Annual