As the thwack of leather on willow fades from village greens with the waning of the cricket season, a new sound, perhaps less evocative of the country idyll, fills our little valley. Toppled willow trees rip through the canopies of their doomed neighbours, and drop with dull thuds to the angry screams of chainsaws.
To watch any tree fall is poignant, but for someone involved in woodland management like me, it can be conflicting. These majestic willows were planted in my teenage years, they have received my care and protection, and in turn they have given me much joy, but I always knew they were a crop, not a permanent feature. So, as these old friends are felled and hauled away to become cricket bats, an acutely uncomfortable feeling rises in me, somewhere between grief and satisfaction.
