RAIN, FOREST

When we moved to south-west England from the eastern side of the country, we noticed a few changes almost immediately. For one thing, the weather was very different: day after day, it was difficult to get outside for any length of time without getting drenched.

Moss clings to the trees and, in turn, provides a niche where small ferns can take root, allowing them to get a foothold even high up in the canopy: plants springing from plants that are growing on plants, twenty metres or more above the ground.

I’m not so keen on the frequent rain. But I love these woods - and, of course, the two go hand in hand. In moving from Cambridgeshire to mid-Devon we have exchanged rain shadow for rain forest.

Accepting a broad definition, this woodland really is a temperate version of the tropical rainforest we are so familiar with from the news headlines and wildlife documentaries. We all know the arguments for protecting rainforest. Indeed, they are so powerful that here in Britain they are sometimes co-opted on behalf of other habitats. We must protect a scarce habitat - peat bog perhaps - because it is ‘Britain’s rainforest’. But why resort to analogy? The habitats in question can surely stand on their own terms in justifying protection. And when it comes to rainforest: well... we have the real thing, and it is certainly worth looking after.

These woods have a unique atmosphere to them. Though the leaves of the deciduous trees fall in autumn, varied shades of green persist throughout the winter. The mosses, ferns, liverworts and lichens grow year-round. Ivy clambers up into the canopy, growing over the moss-clothed trunks and soon acquiring moss of its own, helping its twisting stems to blend with the trees. In places, Holly grows between the larger trees. Both Holly and Ivy keep their leaves all year, lending their own blends of green to the verdant canvas of the woods.

Because of the smoothness of their bark, and perhaps its chemistry, it is the Beech trees that support the most moss. Some old trees are entirely swaddled in its soft, thick coating, from the base of the trunk all the way up into the branches high overhead. Ash and oak trees have more cracks and crevices, and host a greater variety of mosses and lichens, adding further shades of green to the underlying grey of their trunks. The smaller Hazel trees have their own lichen assemblage, including one that, now I’ve noticed it, I always look out for: script lichen has dark spore-producing structures that rise from its surface, seeming to form symbols, like an ancient Greek text. On young, quick­growing trees the symbols are well spaced as the bark expands rapidly, but on older, slower growth they cluster together, looking for all the world like a message, crafted in a strange, unfathomable language. They ensure the future of the lichen with their spores, and give us something intricate to ponder as we pass by.

Despite their dependence on rain, Devon’s rainforests are surprisingly good places to take shelter from wet weather. The trees, with their coating of moss and other plants, soak up the falling raindrops and release water gradually, channelling it along the branches and down the trunk rather than allowing it a more direct route to the ground (and the people) below. Even in winter, when there are no leaves, these woods offer welcome shelter if you get caught out (as I often do) with no coat.

Days after the last downpour, the trees continue slowly to leak rain, keeping the streams flowing and maintaining damp conditions for the creatures that depend upon them - tiding them over until the next weather system arrives. The moss is a unifying and regulating force. It evens out the pulses of water that sweep in from the Atlantic. It grabs the water it needs and holds onto it. If it’s raining, you can come here to avoid getting wet; if it’s hot and dry, you can still find rain soaked into the moss, together with the cooling shade of the canopy above.

I visit the woods almost every day of the year, but an extra beauty seeps into them in spring. A new layer of green emerges from the ground and pushes up towards the light. Overhead, leaf buds that have sat out the winter burst open and unfurl. The earliest flowers of the woodland floor take advantage of a small window of opportunity. They must wait until the coldest and darkest days of winter are over and for pollinating insects to emerge from their slumber. But leave it too late and the trees will have shut out the light flooding in from above.

So, for just a few weeks each year, spring flowers bring magic to these places. Splashes of brightness start to break up the green monopoly. The first wave is yellow, with the subtle pale flowers of Primroses and the sharper, brighter stars of Lesser Celandines. Marsh Marigolds light up the dampest spots and mark out places to skirt around unless you want a boot full of water. Wood Anemones and Wood-sorrel add white, and violets bring varied shades of purple and pink. As a colour scheme, it shouldn’t work and yet it does, every time, every year, as winter finally loses its grip.

The first migrant bird to arrive in spring is the Chiffchaff. One day in March its simple two-tone song will ring out, once again, through the trees. This is not the richest of birdsongs. As music for human ears it shouldn’t work. But it does work, every time, every year.

There will be a day, usually in March, when a tiny part of the woodland tapestry will catch your eye, as if a stray primrose petal has been caught up by the breeze.

The woods in spring are at their freshest and most delightful, though already they are tinged with melancholy. The first Chiffchaff and the first Brimstone of the year are, by definition, one-off, unrepeatable moments. I’ll have to wait twelve months for this to happen again, and in the seclusion of the trees I can’t help but wonder how many more times I have left. Twenty, or thirty perhaps, if I’m lucky. That doesn’t sound many.

The woods in March are brimming with promise for the summer ahead that I know from experience will never quite be fulfilled. True, the days will lengthen, the weather will warm up, the trees will ring with birdsong as the summer migrants pour in, and the vegetation will continue to unfold and fill out. But the magic of spring will not be overtopped. Much like anything good in life, the real joy is in the beginnings and in the antici­pation of what is to come.