My mum is a forester’s wife. Growing up, I remember her collecting logs every autumn and stacking them in the log shed, picking out the Sitka spruce needles from inside the drum of the washing machine.
When my brother and I were born in the 80s, prospects for working-class women in rural areas were few and far between. Especially for mothers. We grew up on a country estate in Yorkshire in a tied house, which meant it came with my dad’s job. Each morning Dad set off for the woods with his lunchbox and Mum stayed at home to look after us.
