Imagine attempting to explain to someone you despise woodlands. Take it further and stipulate that you find the sight and scent of these woodlands not just distasteful, but downright objectionable. If given control over the matter, there wouldn’t be rampant deforestation, but neither would there be a fervour to plant scores of new trees worldwide. Convey to them – maybe with a theoretical stance – that for a significant portion of human history, trees and forests represented terror and bad luck more than anything else. The concept of a tree symbolising peace and wisdom is a rather modern and unusual notion. One should question why in the current climate crisis we are overly emotional about trees. To illustrate this, consider the instance when the two men accused of illegally chopping down the iconic “Sycamore Gap” tree in England had to arrive in court concealing their identities due to the risk of public lynching.
Over the course of my life, I’ve continually embraced contentious or opposing perspectives, either from genuine interest or a misguided endeavor to be provocative or intriguing. I’ve often asserted, for example, that physical exercise is nothing but a pernicious right-wing plot and that there’s an unsettling fixation with body perfection inherent in sports activities. I’ve contended, with conviction, that Paris is the least attractive city in Europe, and Italian cooking is nothing but bland carbs topped with basil. I’ve expressed my disapproval of the GAA and the Irish language, and also held specific objections to ocean swimming (bourgeois) and countryside hiking (fascist).
While this type of braggadocio usually elicits a shrug or is simply ignored – if anyone even takes note or is concerned at all – it’s my perspective on trees that really stirs the pot. It’s clear the one belief of mine that’s truly met with disapproval, or at least impossibility to disregard, is my intense dislike for trees. This has inadvertently become somewhat of a personal emblem for me. At academic conferences, upon announcing my name, individuals often respond with a measured “Ah, the chap who detests trees.”
Without fail, every time there’s a showcase of art – and there always seems to be one – celebrating the delicate majesty of trees in the Anthropocene era, I’m swarmed with a slew of jesting invitations. Last year, an infamous “sycamore gap”, which had graced a photogenic hollow near Hadrian’s Wall for two hundred years, was unexpectedly felled. I was the recipient of numerous inquiries about whether I’d caught wind of this development, and whether I could account for my whereabouts on the night in question.
In my family, we’ve always held a shaky relationship with trees. On a particular occasion when our parents were absent, my elder sibling, a teenager of around 16 or 17, found himself under the influence of the Dutch Gold intoxicant. He proceeded to scale a tree in a nearby enclosed park, an endeavour that ended abruptly as he plummeted face first onto the ground. In his subsequent state of worrying bewilderment, I, maintaining a sober and detached perspective typical of my character, attempted to coax him home in search of aid. After much persuasion, I was successful in bringing him back to the house, necessitating an ambulance call followed by an alert to our parents. Luckily, no immediate harm was done. Yet, this incident instilled a sense of trepidation regarding trees throughout my younger days.
Back in those times, our residence was in proximity to a lofty tree, possibly an oak or lime, situated at the garden’s edge. This tree became a source of persistent worry for my parents. Their primary concern was that the tree’s roots could undermine the house’s architectural stability. Later, they began to fear a formidable storm which could potentially dislodge the tree, potentially causing it to collapse onto our house. The tree, in a bid to alleviate these worries, was subjected to a gradual process of pollarding, first carried out rather nervously by my father, and then more assertively by a professional arborist. The grandeur of this tree was thus considerably reduced to suit its residential surroundings.
Apart from these early lessons in caution, my own interaction with trees has been defined by a more personal biological issue: an allergy to tree pollen. To those who are unaffected, this might seem trivial or even amusing, but the reality is far from it. Ever since I was small, I’ve learnt to associate the flourishing activity of spring, celebrated by many as a symbol of happiness, renewed life, and childhood innocence, with an incoming biochemical assault. Consequently, I’ve spent countless hours seeking refuge in movie theatres and shopping complexes, keeping myself at a safe distance from the toxic environment that the early summer brings.
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When sweltering temperatures strike Ireland, it’s likely that we’ll see our trees as a refreshing blessing. Notwithstanding personal or family disagreements, I’m inclined to think the true problem lies in our perception of trees. If I were examining this sociologically, I’d wonder about our collective, political view on trees.
Strange as it may seem, we’ve shifted from viewing trees with suspicion or as an economic asset to seeing them as a solution to our problems. These range from environmental issues and mental health to public safety and unreliable food chains. They promote wildlife habitats and the development of children, stimulate economic growth and — though rarely discussed — support property value appreciation.
The link between trees and property value isn’t to be overlooked. A study in London some years ago demonstrated that an additional one per cent of green cover in a voting district led to house prices increasing by an average of 0.5 per cent. This shows us how trees, far from being simple, unassuming plants, have significant political and economic roles in human society. A tree-rich neighbourhood is a symbol of prosperity and status, not due to a magical money-making tree leaf quality, but rather their representation of ample resources, stability, and hierarchy.
Growing urban trees requires a spacious and patient approach, especially as overcrowded industrial cities of the 19th and early 20th centuries led to more middle and upper class people, including the original builder of my childhood home, relocating to suburban outskirts reminiscent of pastoral retreats.
Enjoying nature is one thing, but when we perceive trees from an unproblematic, all-positive perspective, it becomes a cause for concern in my view. My issue stems from the notion that trees, particularly those found in urban environments, serve as socio-moral boundaries often utilized for defining and demarcating spaces, and for signalling who is welcome and who is not. The campus that I am fortunate to work on is a beautiful urban university located in the downtown of Cork City, and the reality that it houses an arboretum comprising 2,500 trees is telling of how the concept of the university was perceived by its founders, pointing towards an intended moral elevation and refinement of the place in connection with the city.
The concept of trees and cities presents an intriguing duality in anthropological terms. Those who house residents in industrial cities have spent a long time worrying. The risks of causing anything from infectious diseases to rebellious thoughts surge when people are bundled together closely. Citizens being detached from the earth and removed from the perceived physical and moral discipline of farming work are considered the catalysts for societal instability since the 19th century. Some even see it, most seriously, as a racial degradation instance.
We must therefore appreciate trees as carriers of rural nature back into the urban jungle, providing regulation over the typically uncontrollable urban residents. The implementation of trees in cities is not primarily a result of climate change or for their positive impacts on mental health. Trees in the cityscape are purposed for transporting us momentarily to an envisioned bygone era of rigorous labour, assured morality, and a respected social pecking order.
So, upon reflection, the strained affair that my family and I share with trees and the earth’s elements is perhaps not something to fret over. This thought is somewhat surrealistic, yet I am inclined to feel that the clumsy circumstances involving my family and nature represent a modern shift. The arguably incompetent calamities that play out in our suburban living are more than just misadventures. They offer recognition of nature as a symbol of potential threats. This notion can be seen as an unconscious effort to shake off the weight of tradition and plunge boldly into a bright, spacious, and modern future with the promise of air conditioning.
Des Fitzgerald, who serves as a medical humanities and social sciences professor at UCC, has authored the book, The City of Today is a Dying Thing. The book has been released by Faber & Faber.