absolutelynotnormal

“I have seen tempests when the scolding winds have rived the knotty oaks.” 

– William Shakespeare, ‘Julius Caesar’

In Old Norse, Knútr means knot. This has been translated to Knud in Danish, Knútur in Icelandic, and Knut in Norwegian, Swedish and German. The anglicised version is Canute … as in King Canute, the man who is famous for attempting to control the tide:

When he was at the height of his ascendancy, he ordered his chair to be placed on the sea-shore as the tide was coming in. Then he said to the rising tide, “You are subject to me, as the land on which I am sitting is mine, and no one has resisted my overlordship with impunity. I command you, therefore, not to rise on to my land, nor to presume to wet the clothing or limbs of your master.” But the sea came up as usual, and disrespectfully drenched the king’s feet and shins. So jumping back, the king cried, “Let all the world know that the power of kings is empty and worthless, and there is no king worthy of the name save Him by whose will heaven, earth and the sea obey eternal laws.”

Henry of Huntingdon, ‘Historia Anglorum‘

But all that is an aside; what I’d really like to do is introduce you to Knútr. He’s a relatively new acquaintance of mine, but he’s fantastic. Knútr stands in the confines of Wayland Wood, right at the back in an old growth area. He’s a field maple, as per the tattered pennants of maple keys fluttering from his topmost branches, and his trunks stand guard around a central space where the ghost of an ancient trunk lingers. This is one of the most ancient patches of woodland in the UK with records of coppicing dating back to at least the 10th century (there are some ideas that it may have been here since the ice age, there have been artefacts found dating to the Neolithic period). Who knows what Knútr has seen; his current iteration may have only been around for decades, but his rootstock could have seen people from centuries ago.

In a couple of weeks, his feet will be covered by a sea of colour; the delicate pinkish-white of wood anemones, butter yellow primroses, the glossy, sunshine yellow of celandines and the soft, almost purplish blue of bluebells, but at the moment it’s all crunchy dry sepia leaves interspersed with the promise of bright green leaf shoots. A cold wind blows straight through the trees, colder somehow than it should be, perhaps because I usually spend much more time in this woodland later on in the year and I’m expecting something different.

Knútr’s trunks are gnarled and knotted with great circular bumps at intervals all the way up them. On closer inspection these bumps are formed from bundles of tiny twigs and buds springing from an underlying lump of wood. These are, I think, burrs (or burls if you’re either American or a woodworker); unusual growths on a tree which are caused by stress, fungus or viruses. It might seem like Knútr is deformed on the outside, but these growths create beautiful patterns in the grain and their wood is highly prized by woodworkers. Not that I’m going to chop him down or chisel out the wood, but it’s good to know that internal beauty lurks behind something that could be seen as ugly.

His burrs are adorned with wisps of bright green moss and the greyer green of lichen. There are mysterious holes amongst the twigs, like something escaped from inside. They make me think of galls, but everything I’ve read suggests that is not what these are. It’s easy to believe in magic when you stand here in this ancient space; to believe that fae creatures could have emerges from these holes and fluttered away, that these could be hatching chambers for winged beasts or a place for dryads to centre their being.

I leave Knútr to his contemplation of the world around him, and continue on my way. I’ll go back and visit again once the woodland has sprung a little further into spring.