Tree on a Hill in a Field

Every time I see a field I am reminded of this story.

I was young – was I ten, twelve, fourteen? – with my friend Craig… or maybe Adam.

We played regularly in the fields behind my house – behind his too; they bridged the gap between our back gardens.

Roughly half way between stood a small hill. Atop that hill stood a small tree, if you could call it that. Even in summer it resembled a mere twig, totally leafless.

Devoid of green, it was however strong. One could tell even as a youngster that it had been there long before I was born.

We never made a fort there, climbed it or hung a makeshift hammock. In fact, we never even really noticed its presence.

One day, though, curiosity got the better of us. Adam (or Craig) had brought his pen knife with him.

Did we need wood for something? Or was it simply the curious mind of a child drawing us in and devilishly tempting us to do something our parents wouldn’t permit?

I think the latter.

With the serrated knife attachment, he began to cut. When he tired, I took over. It took time, but we were making progress.

We didn’t choose the thickest branch, or the thinnest. Just a medium one.

When we reached halfway through we contemplated giving up. Our sore arms begging us to stop. What use would a branch be anyway? We couldn’t take it home.