An Englishwoman, an Irishwoman, a Welshman and a ‘British’ woman were all sitting around their respective dinner tables having a Zoom meal.  It was the time of the Rugby Six Nations tournament and the conversation between the Welsh and Irish contingent was animated, emotional, patriotic, fervent and loud.  Suddenly Irish turned to English and asked why we didn’t exhibit the same degree of loyalty to England.  There was quite a long, deep pause as we marshalled our thoughts.

While we are waiting, I will just mention that the ‘Briton’ present is so-called because she is linked by birth, domicile, emotional connections and genetics, not only to Surrey, but also to the Isle of Wight, Yorkshire and Ayrshire.  In the interests of balance she is often pigeonholed as the token Scot, but on this occasion she adopted an English perspective (current domicile and birthright).  As another aside, we are all white and British or Irish born. 

Much of what came out of the pregnant pause will be picked up again in future blogs.  I’m referring to things like never thinking we were the underdog, not having to fight for (in this case) Celtic identity, culture, language or independence; things like guilt over the empire (so often identified with the English if not, actually, factually correct); things like the adoption of the cross of St George by football fans; things like being economic migrants within our own country and having lost our roots or strong feelings of identity for a particular region. 

The final question, from Ireland, was, ‘Well, where is home for you, and with what area do you identify?’  It was a sudden, light bulb moment for England.   The answer is Kent.  It is the land of my fathers (most of my mothers came to London from the Midlands).  Kent is not known for its prowess in rugby, but it is where I instantly feel at home and is the only county where I don’t have to spell my surname. 

As a child I visited deepest Kent regularly.  We were allowed free range of the local countryside as long as we rocked up at our grandparents’ cottage in time for meals.  Somehow, I absorbed an innate emotional, ecological, botanical, geographical, historical, architectural, cultural, literary, agricultural and (being Kent) horticultural afinity, and a deep appreciation of Kentish landscape and community.    Many, many years later, on a visit to Hughenden Manor (which is in Buckinghamshire), we walked down an avenue of beautiful coppiced hazels.  I instantly felt a warm rush of comfort and nostalgia for Kent.  I instinctively knew their shape and form and what they stood for in the history of the Kentish landscape.   You may think this is bizarre, but it was a wonderful feeling of coming home.  Snowdonia does it for the other half of Terroir.  So it’s not romantic tosh after all?

This feeling was revived, when we went for a walk in a National Trust Woodland on the Surrey side of the Kentish border.  No, we’re not purists; English Terroir feels pretty comfortable in Sussex and the Kent/Sussex/Surrey borderlands too, despite greater difficulties in surname spelling. 

Walking into Hornecourt Wood feels like slipping on a favourite old glove and, in landscape terms, you instantly recognise every aspect of the history and ecology of the space around you.  But you don’t have to be a local or an ecologist to appreciate the delicate beauty of a deciduous wood in spring.  The wood anemones were at their best, low-lying but proud, massed but not in your face, stunning but delicate.  The beefier bluebells were doing their best to catch them up and already a blue miasma was creeping over the ground, but the bridal wind flowers (Anemone nemorosa) were the stars of the show. 

This is ancient semi-natural woodland, defined by being consistently shown as woodland from the earliest maps to the present day (1600 is taken as the starting point).  At Hornecourt, it’s a southern classic: a mix of hornbeam which is easily coppiced to provide small ‘round wood’ for poles, fencing, hurdles and so on, and, at a lower density, oak ‘standards’ which grow up as single massive stems to provide construction timber.  It’s been a while since that management system has been in operation in Hornecourt, and the hornbeams are growing bigger while the oaks are falling, creating a horizontal sculpture park, studded with their star-like roots. Even the occasional hornbeam has toppled over. 

The sculpture park effect is also turned to vertical effect by many of the standing oaks displaying a spectacular range of burrs which are outstandingly visible in springtime.

The hornbeam is as delicate as the wood anemones at this time of year and their opening buds are hanging down like tiny, lax, cocktail umbrellas, while their catkins fatten, lengthen and release their pollen, to the disquiet of Terroir’s hay fever sensitive receptors. 

Hornecourt Wood isn’t all fairy glades, catkins and picturesque burr oak, however, and its topography hides some interesting and alternative evidence of former times.  As background, you should know that the wood is just a small part of a large agricultural estate, donated to the National Trust around the middle of the last century; there are five main farms spread over three parishes.  To a public which is used to the Handbook listings of heritage buildings and spectacular countryside, this is a side of the National Trust which is less well known.  The estate is located in the farmlands of the Low Weald and the wood tumbles down a low escarpment to the sticky clays of the Weald below.  A classic Wealden gill also tumbles through a steep-sided valley within the wood, and low-key plank bridges provide pedestrian access.

But there are warning signs of alternative or additional uses.  It’s like stubbing your toe on a stone which shouldn’t be there.  A rhododendron clump and a few cherry laurels are out of character; stands of birch regeneration, standing out like sore thumbs, have probably taken root in an area cleared but not restocked; there is the shock of an inner core of conifers, including what looks to me like western red cedar, a native of the Pacific coast of north America; new plantings of native hardwoods stand in regimented rows, even-aged and as yet un-thinned – the tell-tale tree shelters still lurking in the light-loving bramble undergrowth. 

A quick chat with the National Trust confirms these findings.  Apparently the wood was once managed for pheasant rearing – no doubt as an additional source of income at a time when local biodiversity was not sufficient justification in a working landscape.  Pheasants are not lovers of draughty copses and the laurel may have been encouraged to provide cover and shelter. 

The Trust experimented with ‘commercial’ plantings of conifers again, no doubt, following the practice of the time and chasing the available grants.  Thankfully, they were limited to the interior of the woodland and the gill valley, no doubt to conserve the visual amenity of the ancient wood within the landscape. 

Again, management aspirations and grant funding changed and much of the coniferous timber appears to have been felled to be replaced by native hardwood species, with the pioneer birch trees leaping in to colonise peripheral open spaces.  No doubt the pandemic has entirely destroyed the timetable and budget for any plans to manage these young trees, such that they can integrate into the classic habitat which gives the rest of the wood its richness and beauty. 

The National Trust has Terroir’s every sympathy. Woodland management is wonderfully rewarding on all fronts except financial. Until we can adopt a Natural Capital approach, whereby the ‘stocks’ and flows’ of natural resources and services can be assessed in monetary terms, and accounted for on a par with traditional evaluations of goods and services, mangement of magical places such as Hornecourt Wood will be an uphill (pun intended) struggle.

Terroir will leave you with two thoughts. The Zoom dining quartet (particularly the Celts) wish it to be known how much they appreciate living in England, despite their apparent fierce attachment to their mother lands!

Meanwhile those with a fierce attachment to their English forefathers delight in the sculptural impact of the historic remnants of a neglected, south east English, hornbeam-and-hawthorn hedge.