STANDING under the beech tree, looking up into the cave roof of blue shade, the density of the tree’s canopy blocking out the day’s sunshine. In late spring and summer, the beech is the parasol tree, casting glad, cooling shade for the weary walker, the picnicker and, doubtless, once upon a time, for persecuted outlaws, the Robin Hoods.
No British tree, not even oak, has such presence as beech. A single beech tree, such as this one in the copse, is sufficient in itself to create the quintessence of beechwood: the sense of entering a churchy, sacred space: the immense grey pillars,
