On this day, it is blowing a hoolie
and cold sheets of rain gust in horizontal squalls
as we trudge uphill off the road to Airor
through quivering heather and bog myrtle.
Standing in a line, we heave up sacks of saplings:
rowan, birch, Scots pine, willow, oak.
We break into pairs and together, one of us
scarifies the earth and the other plants
these tiny, tender beings that one day will
liberally cloak the land again. I have never
planted a tree before; it was only
on a walk from Inverie to Sandaig the previous day
that I met this group of voluntary tree-planters.
Why don’t you join us tomorrow? they said.
And I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. And so,
here I am, an easy rhythm infusing my bones
as I dig, bend, fertilise, lower, plant, stamp, breathe
and repeat, again and again until
I no longer notice that my waterproofs are not
that waterproof or that my boots have filled
with rainwater, just like the holes that we are
digging across the mountainside. Every so often
I pause, and I steal a look out across Loch Hourn
and the distant craggy contours of Skye,
obscured by mist and rain.
I look at these people I don’t know but for whom I feel
a sudden, fierce burst of love, who are quietly, freely
spending time on this wind-whipped, rain-danced
mountainside. And most of all, I look at the
saplings that are spreading steadily, generously
across the land, harbingers of hope, each one
a small flag of faith raising immature branches
to the elements. They say, let us grow roots.
They say, we believe in the future.
They say, will you do this again, somewhere, sometime?
I nod. Smile. And turn back to dig, bend, fertilise, plant.
Cover photo credit: Steve Rawson
Rebecca Stonehill
Rebecca Stonehill lives in Norwich. She is the author of three historical fiction novels and a memoir and her fifth book will be published in 2025. She runs Norwich Writers Rebel, a collective of local writers exploring the climate and ecological emergency. She loves river swimming and exploring wild places.