THE ARBOR TREE

Roy Kerridge joins

the mysterious celebrations at Aston-on-Clun

IT was Geoffrey Messer, the strange tree artist of the Welsh borders, who first told me of the Arbor Tree at Aston-on-Clun in Shropshire. We were sitting in his little studio at Knighton, the walls hung with his sensitive paintings of local trees, as he spoke passionately of the survival of tree worship in Shropshire, Herefordshire and Radnorshire. I am convinced that one of Geoffrey's ancestors was the priest of a sacred tree in pre-Roman days.

`Many oak trees round here are called Lady Oaks,' he told me. `No one knows why. Every Oak Apple Day, on 29 May, at the tiny village of Aston-on-Clun, a black poplar known as the Arbor Tree is deco- rated with flags. This recalls the old Celtic custom of hanging pieces of cloth on trees dedicated to a particular saint. Usually the saint had replaced a pagan god. The tree at Aston-on-Clun is sometimes known as the Bride's Tree. An 18th-century squire, John Marston, drove his new bride to see the decorated tree on their wedding day, 29 May. The bride was so taken with the tree that she left money to pay for an annual ceremony.

`However, most people say that the tree was called the Bride's Tree before that time. It may have been dedicated to St Bridget, a real-life abbess of Kildare in Ireland. Her name has been used to camouflage the worship of a Celtic goddess named Bride. In Welsh, Bridget becomes Braid. [He pronounced the word as if it were bride]. Now Braid was the goddess of 'Cripes Bruce! Its the flying acupuncturist.' fertility and fire, of the heart and of poetry. The Celts regarded poetry as spiritual tongues of flame, like the Holy Ghost of Pentecost. There used to be a belief that when the abbess, St Bridget, went into a house, those outside thought the place was on fire. We have a lot of old gods down here, mind. Over towards Knucklas you can see Craig Don, known in English as the Devil's Chair, a rocky place on a hill. Don was a Celtic god who suffered the indignity of being called a devil by Christians.'

You might not imagine so by the above conversation, but Geoffrey Messer is him- self a Christian who has written inspir- ational poetry. History, folklore and hagiography have all combined at the foot of the poplar at Aston-on-Clun. Oak Ap- ple Day was once officially recognised as Charles II's Restoration Day, the scene of country-wide festivities. Normally a pagan echo of oak worship could be heard on such occasions, for the monarch had hid- den from his pursuers in an oak tree, as every schoolboy used to know. A black poplar tree makes a welcome change. This is an old British species of poplar, not an import like the spectacular Lombardy pop- lar.

I stepped down from the Mid-Wales Railway train at the tiny request stop of Broome, and hurried down the lane to Aston-on-Clun. Tree-dressing does not take place until evening, and it was now mid-afternoon. Nestling below steep hills, Aston-on-Clun proved a haunting and mysterious village of grey stone cottages, two of which were completely round, giant African huts with windows, doors and a chimney on the roof-point. Small bridges crossed a stream and led to cottage door- ways, as in the Cotswold tourist village of Bourton-on-the-Water. The fourth and largest bridge led up to the hills, and beside it, on a shored-up mound, grew the famous black poplar of Aston-on-Clun.

A plaque below the tree read as follows: 'The Arbor Tree is the Legendary Sole Survivor of those Decorated by King Charles H to Celebrate the Restoration of the Monarchy on 29 May 1660. The Tree was Dressed on Arbor Day 1788 for the Marriage of Squire Marston of Oaker to Mary Carter of Sibdon who Left Money to Ensure that it was Dressed Annually.'

An old tree, heavily pollarded, the poplar lurched to one side, the trunk partly hollow. Pollarding had extended its natural life, for the new limbs sprang straight upwards from the gnarled old trunk like fresh, clean-cut young saplings. This tree was said to be over 300 years old; another Arbor Tree had grown on the same site previously. Five flags hung from poles fastened to the branches. These remained in place all year round.

Nobody seemed to be paying any atten- tion to the tree, so I set out to explore the village. One of the bridges, I noticed, was made of two flat boulders resting on a piece of masonry embedded in the stream. Swallows whisked by on pointed wings. A disused mill stood beside one of the round houses, and I was told that the circular dwelling had been a bakery. At the end of the village street, a cottage doorway was framed by yews, where an entrance had been cut neatly through the foliage. Villa- gers seemed a mixture of upper-class set- tlers and countryish families. Just then a purposeful group of men, women and children emerged from a nearby farmyard carrying flags and a ladder. They lashed the flagpoles onto the pollarded branches of the old poplar and in a short time the tree was decorated.

'We do this because it's always been done,' one of the women explained.

The new flags fastened to larch poles stuck out of the bushy tree-top at various angles, like pins stuck at random into a pin-cushion. Picking up their ladder, the locals departed, leaving me to admire the Union Jack, the WI flag and a Canadian maple leaf flag hanging limply from the end of their respective poles. The criss- cross poles resembled perches fixed into place for the convenience of giant parrots. A crowd now began to gather, consisting of village families and teenagers. Few small children were present, as most of them were behind the scenes preparing for a mock 'wedding procession'. Tea and sand- wiches were served in a nearby barn, and hamburger stalls, barbecues, hoop-la and coconut shies had been set up on the green beside the Legion hall. Back at the tree, a group of cloth-capped and booted farm people were standing apart from the main crowd, looking on with detached and indulgent good humour. An old man in similar dress leant on a wall and stared at the tree with popping eyes, an expression of childish wonderment on his face. I asked him if the Marston family, who had endowed the tree, still survived. 'Goo goo goo!' he replied.

'That's old Albert. No one can make any sense of him,' one of the other men explained. 'No, the Marstons have all died out now. There was talk of a family curse. Most of the ceremony expenses are paid for by the council, these days.'

I could see that this was true, for the hired entertainer, Doctor Sunshine, resem- bled a Community Clown in a park in one of London's 'caring' boroughs.

With a hoot and a shriek, a tattered soot-blackened army of wild-eyed Morris dancers appeared at the top of the street. They ran and leaped towards the tree, led by John Kirkpatrick, a local folklorist, who had invented their rituals. These consisted of running round in a circle and periodical- ly clacking enormous sticks together, to the music of an accordionist and of a nigger minstrel who plucked on a banjo. A troop of Morris maidens, who resembled self- conscious and overgrown Brownies, pranced decorously at intervals, glancing around disapprovingly as if fearful that the manic Morris men would carry them away. Villagers old and young peered forward intently. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in a rather stolid way.

A happy sigh broke from the crowd as a charming procession of small children cro- codiled down the hillside lane and assem- bled at the foot of the tree, goaded on by anxious schoolmistressy women. It was a wedding procession, led by a tiny Squire Marston in a top hat and by a furiously blushing bride in white, slightly taller than her groom. A miniature black-robed par- son trotted by their side, clutching a prayer book. All their followers were dressed as Kate Greenaway children, an enchanting sight. Forming a mass of caps, lace and bon- nets, they seated themselves beside the tree and, prompted by adult stage whis- pers, sang in piping voices a ditty that began 'See the flags a-flying in the Arbor Tree.'

A present-day squire, or rich farmer, drove across the bridge and past the tree in a pony and trap. A bowler-hatted red- faced man, he sported a whip and a splendid pair of mutton chop side- whiskers.

Preparations began for a barn dance in the Legion hall, but I had to run to catch my two-carriage train. I said goodbye to the flag-bearing Arbor Tree, which looked strange and sad when approached from the farmyard and seen as if for the first time.

Next day, Geoffrey Messer and I discus- sed the significance of the tree. 'Until a few years ago, people would cut sprigs from the Arbor Tree and plant them in their gar- dens,' he told me. 'If the tree grew, the family would have children, but if it died they'd have none. That custom was given up, not because it didn't work, but because it worked too well. Many of the sprigs died, and those families which had planted them had no children. It almost seemed like a curse, so people stopped doing it. Perhaps Squire Marston had taken his bride to the tree to cut a sprig, and perhaps she later endowed the upkeep of the flags in gratitude for her many children.'

'Maybe', I replied. 'When my sister went to Nigeria, she was shown a sacred grove in the bush, home of a fertility goddess. Pieces of cloth had been tied to all the branches of a tree, and people gathered to ask the tree goddess for children. You weren't supposed to photograph the tree, and when my sister did so, her camera broke and never worked again. Take my word for it, to find the meaning of an old Celtic custom, go to West Africa, where Celtic-style paganism still flourishes. Celts and West Africans have a great deal in common. In Ghana, so I have been told, there are trees in which village ancestors dwell. They are given dishes of corn and animal sacrifices to eat. Perhaps every British village had its holy tree in pagan days.'

'That's right, the tribal tree was im- ported to the old Celts, and later it became a village tree,' Geoffrey said. 'In early Ireland, it was considered an important part of warfare to assassinate your enemy's tree. At Brompton Bryan in Hereford- shire, the village where I live, there used to be a lime tree known as the Arbor Tree.

There was no ceremony to go with it, but the lime used to be planted to ward off evil. We used to have a big horse fair, Broil Fair, once a year. It was always held around the tree. But our Arbor Tree was cut down in the end, and they planted a sweet chestnut. Nobody has ever called that an Arbor Tree.

'I wonder how the name Arbor Tree came about,' he mused. 'Arbor is "tree" in Latin, so that would make it a tree-tree.

Could it have a connection with "harbour" meaning "shelter"? There's a saying they have round here about a high exposed spot in the hills: "It's a cold harbour up there when the wind's blowing." The place name, Coldharbour is supposed to be derived from Coel harbour, the harbour of Old King Coel or a god of the same name. I even know of a Coed-harbour. "Coed" is Welsh for a wood.'

'There's a Coldharbour Lane in Brix- ton,' I put in helpfully.

'Is there? In Birmingham there's a street called Arbor Way, just near a place called Coleshill Heath. Do you think there is a link between Coel and the Bride's Tree at Aston-on-Clun?'

He looked at me as if hoping I would say something intelligent. All I could think of, however, was this old rhyme:

Some people say the devil's dead and buried at Coldharbour, But others say he rose again and 'prenticed as a barber.