The Folklore of British Trees and Woodlands

Woods That Remember

Britain's woodlands are as much a storehouse of belief as they are a habitat. Long before parish boundaries were drawn, people read meaning into the trees around them: which species brought luck, which one you dared not cut, and which ones told you what sort of winter was coming. Three trees in particular turn up again and again in our folklore — the oak, the ash and the hawthorn — and their stories are not museum pieces. They survive in May Day processions, in weather sayings muttered over a gate, and in the small charms people still hang by a front door.

One useful thing to know at the outset: much of this lore concerns individual trees, not whole plantations. A single old oak at a crossroads, a thorn on a parish boundary, an ash leaning over a well — these were the landmarks that carried meaning. When you walk an old hedge line or a churchyard, you are often walking an older map of superstition.

The Oak: Royalty, Thunder and Ink

The oak is the king of the wood, and has been for a very long time. It was sacred to the druids, associated with thunder gods across northern Europe, and considered the tree most likely to be struck by lightning — which is why carrying an acorn became a charm against being struck yourself. Acorns were also carried for luck, fertility and long life, and a small one still occasionally turns up sewn into the lining of an old coat.

The oak's more recent fame is political. After the Battle of Worcester in 1651, Charles II hid in an oak tree at Boscobel in Shropshire, and the story gave us the Royal Oak as a pub name and Oak Apple Day on 29 May. Children once wore oak apples and sprigs of oak on that day, and some parishes still do. The oak apple itself is not a fruit at all, but a gall caused by a wasp — and it was the source of the iron-gall ink used by scribes for centuries, which is why so many medieval documents remain legible today.

Look out for gospel oaks, too. Where parish boundaries met, the vicar would read a passage of the Gospel from a marked tree while boys were bumped against it, so that nobody would forget the line. Several survive, still standing on the same spot, still doing the same job in a quieter way.

The Ash: Weather Wisdom and the Shrew Ash

The ash was the tree of healing and of weather prophecy. The best-known saying is still worth testing each spring:

• "Oak before ash, we're in for a splash; ash before oak, we're in for a soak." Watch which leafs first and you have a rough forecast for the summer.
• Ash keys (the winged seeds) were used in love divination — named for a sweetheart and laid by the hearth to see whether they opened.
• A spoonful of ash sap was given to newborn babies in parts of the Highlands, and ash leaves were steeped for complaints from rheumatism to warts.

The strangest ash custom is the shrew ash. A young ash was split lengthways, and a sick child — or, in some versions, a shrew — was passed through the gap. The tree was then bound up again. If the two halves knit back together, the cure was said to have taken. Shrew ashes were recorded in Wales, the Midlands and East Anglia well into the nineteenth century, and a handful of trees with this reputation are still pointed out by local people.

Ash also had a practical magic. A walking stick of ash was said to keep the traveller from straying, and ash handles were favoured for tools because the wood absorbs shock. That is a piece of folklore with sound forestry behind it.

Hawthorn: May Blossom and the Fairies' Tree

Hawthorn, or may, is the tree most tangled up with the fairy faith. It was believed to mark a gateway between worlds, so lone thorns were left uncut, and farmers ploughed around them. Anyone who felled one risked bad luck, illness or a death in the family — a belief strong enough that some road schemes have been quietly rerouted.

There is a firm rule most country people still know: do not bring hawthorn blossom indoors. May in the house meant illness or a death before the year was out. It was perfectly acceptable outside, used to decorate doorways and May bushes to welcome the summer, but never across a threshold. Likewise, "ne'er cast a clout till May be out" may refer not to the month but to the hawthorn flower — wait until the may is in bloom before shedding your winter layers.

If you want to see this lore in action, head to Castleton in Derbyshire for Garland Day on 29 May. A Garland King rides through the village under a heavy cone of flowers, and the churchyard holds a King Oak and a Queen Ash — the two species paired as a couple, as they often are in boundary and May customs.

Yew, Rowan and Elder: Trees With a Job to Do

• Yew. Churchyard yews often predate the churches they shade. They were planted for protection, for their evergreen endurance, and because their wood made the best longbows. The Fortingall Yew in Perthshire is among the oldest living things in Europe.
• Rowan. The mountain ash was the great defence against witchcraft. Two twigs were tied into a cross with red thread and sewn into coats or hung above byres and doorways.
• Elder. Called the "elder mother", it was both medicine and taboo. You used its flowers and berries, but asked permission before cutting, and never burned the wood — an old belief that still keeps some gardeners wary.
• Willow. A tree of sorrow and of water divining, whose supple rods were used to find springs long before dowsing became a party trick.

Keeping the Lore Alive

You do not need a museum to take part. These customs work best when they are useful and local.

Learn the species on your nearest footpath — oak, ash and hawthorn are easy even in winter. Note when the oak and ash leaf in your area and keep a note for a few years; the old rhyme was always meant to be tested against your own patch, not treated as gospel. Help with a well dressing, a boundary walk or a May Day event if your village has one, and if you are planting, choose native stock from a local provenance so the tree suits the soil.

And keep one rule of thumb from the old lore: take from a tree the way you would take from a neighbour — with permission, in moderation, and with something given back. That is the practical heart of British tree folklore, and it is as sound now as it ever was.