Roger Deakin memorably described a spring evening in Tiger Wood in Suffolk in “Wildwood”. The wood’s name comes from the discovery of a curved canine of a sabre-tooth tiger unearthed here some years back.
Ronald and I had walked through Tiger Wood in the snow the winter before. The day was brilliant, the trees sparkling and frilled with frost. A white line of snow was pencilled up the north-east side of each tree. John Nash loved woods, particularly in winter, when their architecture is revealed. The lines of the nude trees are so much stronger. The bones of the landscape stand out. He loved the ruins of woods : dead trees fallen over one another, fungi and brittle twigs. He hated woods to be tidied, and the fashion for management that rubbed out all evidence of past inhabitants, all natural continuity of living denizens.