“… a branch crackled amidst the reddening ashes; a bluish flame rose from it, fringed with tongues of gold; it lengthened, split in two, united again, and expanded, floating like a veil on the breeze, and through this shifting phantasmagoria Mipam, dumbfounded, perceived an unexpected apparition: a little princess was seated on the other side of the room…..”
Yongden
The day after the “Big Wind o‘17” I walked across the fields towards the woods, hoping to find a few fallen branches, and, as I walked up the hill and began to crest it’s brow I noticed a change in the view. I walked a little faster, my eyes fixed on the gap in the line of ancient Beeches that formed the near horizon. When I stood and surveyed all before me I saw the fallen tree.
Immediately two conflicting thoughts competed for my attention; a treasure trove of fire wood, and sadness to see such a mighty tree, in its prime, felled and lying like a beached whale, gasping for breath, clutching to the last lingering moments of life. As I approached the tree I was full of joy at the thought of all the warmth and hot water it would provide, and a little saddened to see this great leviathan of the land lying helpless and defeated.
I caressed the tips of branches that would have blown in lofty breezes and thrilled to think that I was the first human hand to touch them. I would also be the last as I placed them on the fire in years to come.
While I enjoy a good blazing fire, and luxuriate in its warmth and comforting light, I always lament each log as I place it in the devouring flames – the fire quickly destroying what took many decades to grow; and I think of all the beautiful grain patterns that will never be seen or admired, all the wonderful objects that will never be.
While I sat amongst its branches, touching and admiring it, I decided to use at least some of it to make something – which, in comparison to the trees life span, may only last a fleeting time, but would outlive me; with a bit of luck.
As I cut the limbs into manageable pieces I carefully placed some to one side, to sit outside my workshop until they were called upon to reveal the treasures hidden within. While cutting and being deafened by the saw (even through the ear protection) I began to look at each section I cut and imagine what I could do with it – one piece in particular held me slightly longer than the others and as I looked I formulated the idea of a stool. Nothing special, outlandish, just plain and simple, easy to do, and would only occupy an afternoon. I placed the log in the back of the Landrover and resumed my work.
Eventually, I retrieved the log from the little stash I keep in front of the workshop and set it upright on the chopping block – a few clouts of the mallet on the froe and I had some lovely pieces, soon to be stool legs. I did some rough shaping with the axe and then retired, with my four pieces of treasure, into the quiet of the workshop. Why four? I don’t know – stools usually have only three legs.
As I worked with the drawknife and finally with my trusty and favoured spokeshave I began to appreciate how beautiful the wood was that I had saved from the fire. When I was satisfied with my work I placed the legs in the log shed, high up on the pile, to catch the breeze and begin to dry out – there I left them for a few weeks. In that time I returned, often, to my original stool plan – a repurposed piece of battered beech board for the seat, and four sturdy legs; a simple, rustic, utilitarian seat, for those moments when all you want to do is sit, lean forward and cup your chin in your hands and think, look into the distance and get lost in your thoughts – perhaps, by the fire, looking into the magical flames as they divide and unite, leaping joyously, exulting in life. And, as I thought, I realised that I wanted to make something a little more than a rustic stool, something more befitting the magnificent tree from which it sprang.
I found some seasoned white-, and black-, thorn, and set to work, my ideas evolving faster than I could work the wood, my hands constantly trying to catch up with my thoughts, my flights of fancy. Before I knew it I had a stool, a rather fancy stool.
I worked the piece of board to remove as many of the dents and marks as possible, but I soon realised that I would have to leave some or I would end up with just a wafer. Consoling myself that this was ok, as it was in keeping with the ‘rustic’ theme, ahem, I decided they were appropriate and left them, reminders of the boards life well lived in a previous incarnation.
At this point I was quite pleased with what I had, but something was niggling me. As I stood looking at the stool, roughly put together, before the wedges were driven home, I realised it was incomplete, only half done, and that there was more to do – but, I was unsure what I had left out, what needed doing – maybe I had just over worked it, so that it was no longer a simple stool, gotten carried away and failed to stop when it had actually been what it should have been, and walked away, satisfied and content. Or, maybe, it had evolved a little more and I had not yet realised it, not yet noticed it, not yet seen what it actually was, or should be. So I left it, sitting on the workbench.
When I returned the next day it was with some beautiful freshly cut Field Maple. I opened the door and let the fresh air enter the workshop, the clean breeze blowing the shavings around and clearing a little space on the floor in front of the stool as it sat high on the bench looking out into the morning, waiting for me. During the night I had created my own little space and in it had formed an idea, which I was now going to put into action – hoping that I was not going to regret it.
I split the field Maple, did some roughing, a then some final shaping. I held the end product up against the stool and let out a little sigh of relief. Relief that it looked partly as I had seen it in my mind, and also that I had not done the final wedging of the stool. I took it apart and reworked some of the pieces, bored some holes, a bit of finishing on the new spindles (I left plenty of tool marks – I have my reasons!) and then I put it all together.
I was very pleased, to say the least and treated myself to a cuppa and a well-earned pipe while I pondered the final touch. Satisfied and with a clear idea in my mind’s eye, I dug out a lovely off-cut of Yew and set to.
When I finished the chair, for that is what it had become, I moved it outside to get a better view. As I looked over the separate elements I followed their little journeys, their genesis, and how they had come into being. I looked at them in the round, as a unity, all the elements united. I saw a stool, and I saw a chair – a chair to sit by the fire, lean forward, and, resting chin in hands, drift off into thought as the flames of the fire divide and unite, dancing to entertain.
Hopefully it will be a long time before whatever is left of this chair follows the rest of the tree and feeds the flames that turn death and decay into light, warmth and life.
One last thing, there is a nod to Mackintosh in this chair – it might only be an almost imperceptible tilt of the head, but it is there none-the-less. That pleases me, immensely!
“…..It was in very truth a princess, perhaps even a fairy.”