Pete has the first full week of November off work, because it is Tree Week—the period when autumn colour is at its most splendid, and therefore most worthy of a photographer’s time and attention.
Of course, Tree Week can vary depending on climatic conditions—if it has been blowing a gale, most of the leaves can be gone. Or, if the weather has been mild, a number of trees may not have fully turned. But employers do not grant photographers spontaneous tree leave—everything has to be booked in advance. The first full week of November proves to be right more often than not.
“How did you get on at Winkworth Arboretum?” I ask, when Pete returns one afternoon, humping tripod and camera gear in from the car.
“It was great,” he enthuses. “There weren’t many people about, so I was able to get out my central column.”
I laugh in a coarse and lewd manner.
“Really,” he says severely. “The young ladies of today. That was a perfectly legitimate photographic remark.”
As all serious photographers will know, the central column is the extra pole in the middle of a tripod which can be extended upwards, above the legs, to gain additional height. The language of photography is rich in such stimulating metaphors. It is not uncommon to talk about “taking a second body,” or “keeping my old legs but getting a new head.” Shooting in large format requires a rising front, whilst those who use digital boast about the spectacular size of their sensors.
“My plan is to go to the New Forest on Friday,” says Pete. “Would you like to come with me, if your face is feeling up to it?”
I eagerly accept. I’ve never been to the New Forest, apart from once to a wildlife park for the purpose of seeing wild boar, for which I have always had a soft spot, after reading all the Asterix books when young. The boar stalked about in a stately way, thrusting their long snouts into the churned-up ground. The interpretative board on the fence of their large wooded enclosure praised their high intelligence and low cunning, their ability to run fast, swim rivers and elude pursuit. Since ancient times, it went on, hunting them was considered an extremely hazardous and therefore highly prestigious activity. I was pleased to find myself a fan of such a superior creature.
On Friday morning, however, we are on the hunt for other things. We bound down the A339 as it dips and surges between two smooth walls of trunks.
“Look out for a turning on the right with a sign for Bolderwood,” says Pete.
“There, there!” I shout.
We swerve off on to a single-track road that tunnels into the trees. Inside the car, the light goes dim. The sounds of traffic on the main road die away, and soon all we can hear is the scrunch of our own tyres and the engine’s purr, loud in the leafy silence. It is as though we are being absorbed into an enormous living organism; if I were to look back and see the forest close in, amoeba-like, behind us, I would not be surprised.
Time stretches. For what seems hours, but must only be minutes, there is nothing but our gentle forward motion under the upraised arms of the trees.
Finally we stop in a small gravelled parking bay to the side of the road. I get out and look up to a sudden slice of brilliant white sky. The air prickles as I inhale, like sparkling water. Pete opens the boot and extracts his gear. “I’m glad I bought this lightweight tripod,” he says. “It’s much easier to lug about.”
I sing him a chorus from Handel’s Messiah, with photographic words: “His yoke is easy and his tripod is light.”
We cross the empty single-track road and set off down a sandy track whiskered with bright green grass. Across it is a low wooden bar, about knee height, to prevent the entry of motor vehicles. “Shall I leap?” I say to Pete. “I haven’t done anything like this since we did high jump at primary school, with poles and bamboo canes.”
“Well, it’s up to you,” he says, “but try not to go flat on your face at the outset. That would be unfortunate.”
“I’ll be prudent,” I say, stepping over the bar.
The path snakes along as though at the bottom of a canyon, a pale sandy stripe mirroring a pale strip of sky. The trees are huge and intensely individual—fat, gnarled, tan-leaved oaks, smooth columnar beeches with their peachy, biscuity foliage, golden birches and sweet chestnuts, the occasional sober-suited conifer, refusing to be drawn in. Leaves crunch under our feet; now and again there is a rustling off to the side as some creature passes on its way.
“Now here’s a fine tree,” Pete says, as we come to a large beech set slightly back from the path, which thrusts one of its muscular grey limbs out sideways, exactly parallel to the ground. The limb runs straight for a couple of metres before curving upwards, creating a perfect seat.
I plunge through ankle-deep leaves and settle myself on the accommodating arm. “This is great,” I say happily. “Just the right height.” It’s shady on the branch, under the multi-layered canopy. I unhook my mask and stuff it in the pocket of my coat. Pete sets up his camera on its tripod, then comes towards me and takes my hand.
“You know I love you ever so much, don’t you?”
My heart drops through my body, as though a hangman had kicked away its stool. Oh God, I think, why do men do this? Why do they organise a nice day out, take you to a beautiful place, tell you that they love you—then explain that for various subtle and complicated reasons, you also have to break up.
I take a last breath of sparkling air, and brace myself against the tree.
“Will you marry me?” he says.
For a few moments I am completely stunned. I stare at him, round-eyed. Then a cascade of mad mixed-up thoughts bursts through my head, whirling in wild eddies, throwing off question marks like fine spray. I don’t know what to say. “Are you sure?” are the words that come to the front of my mind. For we have reached this point by such a bizarre and unpropitious route, there must be a million reasons why it cannot be a good idea. Yet maybe this is part of the true pattern of life—one of the unlooked-for consequences that arise from its ferocious twists and turns, a strange new compound formed inexplicably inside its crucible of pain.
In my mind, planets collide, civilisations evolve and decay. Like petals of a giant flower, possible worlds unfold. In reality, only seconds pass. I still do not know what to say; in the end my mouth speaks for me; it says:
“Yes.”