Wild Words by Kirsteen Bell: Holly ‘harvest’

It’s early, the sun is only just edging around the Ben in the east. Light filters weakly through wet air, softening the edges of birch and oak around me – but not the sharp points of the holly tree I am here to see.

The ground underneath is littered with leaves blown from the oaks further up the bank, mouldering shades of burgundy and brown, and a pair of yellowing ribwort leaves missed by the deer, by the winter, protected maybe by the lower holly branches.

This single holly tree sits brightly by a group of pale birch. It is tall, half my height again, but still a sapling. The crown leaves have not yet forgotten their need to be spiky.

Nearby, the trunk of a young rowan has been fractured by the shouldering weight of stags: its broken branches demonstrate how far the holly needs to grow before it is out of the deer’s browsing reach.

Holly is common in the understory of oakwoods, even a tiny one like this. When faced with the emptiness of dark gnarled wood, you can see why its shine and colour are so closely associated with Christmas and yuletide.

Evergreen and crimson, it is a burst of brightness as we approach the depths of winter. The smooth verdant surface of the leaves invites touch – were it not for those points that snag and scratch.

And fruit that ripens in winter is a gift, though it needs a frost to sweeten the bitter berries for the birds that will eat and disperse its seeds.

It is too young to be prolific in fruit, yet this wee tree that could live for 300 years if left alone. Will these woods even be here then?

At first, I spot only one berry and, having just been reading Robin Wall Kimmerer, I pause before snipping the branch.