This is the story of an Englishman who loved trees. He worked with them, lived among them, and kept a diary of their lives, each year recording their bursting into leaf, dense summer canopies, and winter’s pinchings by frosts. As he walked the woods he would know for 60 years, no fallen bough escaped him. And when a tree died, he would return to his cottage, settle in his parlour, and write its obituary (“It is with much regret…”) as if it were some venerable colleague who had passed away after a lifetime of loyal service. But mostly, in his neat, businesslike hand, ‘ he wrote in great detail of the climax of the trees’ year: itemising and judging each autumn’s display of colour as if it were entered in a show. And he would wrestle with the mystery of why trees blazed like a well-made fire some years, and yet, in others, merely glowed like embers.

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