THE WOODSMAN

Written by Bob Lomas

Knowing that I could no longer find the kind of trees I was looking for in my own county, I placed an advertisement in the county newspaper of the neighbouring county. My advertisement read, “Wanted, standing Spanish chestnut trees, twenty to thirty years”. 

Two days following its publication I received a telephone call from a Mr King.  He told me he might well have just the trees I was looking for on his estate, and invited me to visit him the next day, suggesting we should meet at the estate office in the Hall, to which he gave me directions. 

The next morning I set out in my Landrover, and an hour later arrived at the Hall gates, both of which had not swung for many years.  Beside the entrance to the drive which disappeared through a jungle of rhododendron, stood a derelict lodge, an ash tiller growing up through the roof of its porch. Driving for several hundred yards along the winding, badly rutted drive I arrived at the Hall, a large Victorian structure built of red brick with Gothic overtones. From the front of the building spacious lawns ran down to a lake. They were no longer mowed, but were grazed by sheep behind electric fences, along with the remains of former flower beds and a rose garden.  The number of cars which stood outside the house gave the impression that it had been broken up into tenanted flats.

The large front door, shaded by a mock Georgian canopy, was open so I walked into the entrance-hall. Of no great size it contained a table, on which were a few letters, and a coat and hat stand made out of deer antlers. The walls were finished in a jonquil distemper, and the woodwork in Windsor brown. A cheerful voice from an adjoining room invited me to enter, it was the voice of the owner Mr King. On the far wall of the estate office hung an enormous tithe map.   Mr King was standing behind a large leather topped desk, covered by many layers of dust and papers. 

We shook hands before Mr King suggested he led me to the wood in his Landrover, and that I should follow him in mine.  We drove a mile or so along country lanes before stopping beside a stand of chestnut. Mr King invited me to take a look around the wood whilst he went off to pick up his woodland manager, a Mr Dougal whom he said knew I was coming.

 As he started to drive off he turned to me with a grin and advised me to keep a look out for the woodsman.  I put my Hoppus tables and quarter-girth measuring tape into my coat pocket and stepped into the wood.  It was a perfect July morning, the canopy above was humming with insects, and from which radiated shafts of sunlight creating a dappled forest floor.  Through the hazy rays fluttered speckled wood butterflies, and a stock dove called “Rupert” from somewhere close-by.

The trees were just what I wanted for traditional cleft fencing, good and straight and well developed.  I walked through the wood to the far side, where it was bordered by a wire fence, beyond which was a railway embankment some fifteen feet high, preventing me from seeing the track itself.  Running parallel to the embankment was a ride rising steadily away until at a distance of some fifty yards or so it met the level of the railway track, and there the ride seemed to end.

Looking up the ride to that juncture I saw that I was not alone. At the far end  was a man and a small dog. The man was doing the same as myself, he was measuring trees with a tape, presumably he was another prospective buyer.   What interested me in him was the way he was dressed, it reminded me of the woodsmen of my boyhood, although he was a comparatively young man.

He was wearing dark trousers and a white collarless shirt over which he wore a dark waistcoat, and on his head a light grey felt hat with a broad black hat-band. How old fashioned, I thought to myself, but I was hardly one to comment. Here we were in the 1980s and I was still using horses to snig out timber, which was barely commercially viable, but I enjoyed working with the horses, and it allowed me to purchase small parcels of timber at a reasonable price that the modern operators found too small to warrant bringing in their large machinery to extract. Anyway, my dress was also a little old fashioned, so I resolved to have a word with my competitor before I left, perhaps we could do a deal that would suit us both. 

As I turned to inspect a particularly good tree I heard a train coming from the direction I had seen the man and his dog. It was a steam train, obviously this was a heritage steam railway, and in a minute or so I would have the thrill of seeing the locomotive rumble by just above me, bringing back memories of my daily journey to the Grammar School when I was a boy. I anticipated that wonderful smell of coal smoke and steam.

Just then the man’s small dog put up a rabbit which rushed towards and through the fence in the direction of the track followed by the yapping dog. I heard the man shout to the dog, then he leapt over the fence after it. I heard the locomotive give a loud whistle followed by screeching brakes. I heard the man shout again, then all went quiet.

Running as quickly as I could I reached where the man had leapt the fence, I could see nothing as the underwood was in full leaf. Scrambling over the fence and pushing my way through the branches I reached the track. I could not believe the sight that met my eyes. 

There was no man or dog to be seen, there was no locomotive, no train, there were no rails or sleepers. Nothing. The track had obviously been derelict for many years. I was totally confused. I knew what I had seen, what I had heard, I thought I must be dreaming one of those dreams that seem so real. I was completely dazed. 

Almost in a stupor I made my way back through the wood to the lane. As I arrived Mr King pulled up in his Landrover. He and another man stepped out, who Mr King then introduced as his woodland manager, Mr Dougal, adding that Mr Dougal was retired but still helped out, and that he was the third generation of Dougals to look after the estate woodlands. I could not help but notice that the three of us could have stepped out of the 1940s. We each wore corduroy trousers, check shirts with a tie despite it being high Summer, and tweed jackets; the only concession being our tweed caps which were of a later design. 

Mr.  Dougal asked me if I had found what I was looking for. I told him I had, in a rather subdued voice. Mr Dougal then asked me if by chance I had seen his grandfather, exchanging a slight knowing grin with Mr King.

I told him I had seen no one, no one at all.