It was a rolling green hillside with a smooth texture, which was ruffled only by the odd clump of low slung thorny shrubs and one other object. On the south side of the hill, about thirty meters from the crest, stood a tall but relatively young oak tree. Its origins were unknown but no doubt its early years were aided by its location, far enough from the summit to avoid the harsh northerly winds that often scoured the opposite face, but high enough to enjoy all of the sunshine that cast warmth upon its broad leaves on all but the cloudiest of days. It was a near perfect existence with seasons coming and going, along with people, animals and wildlife creating an ever changing postcard picture.
Over the years, the oak grew until its powerful branches pushed high above the protection of the rising ground, exposing it to the tough elements that tested the resolve of even the hardiest of life. However, the tree had developed a thick, fibrous bark, enormous boughs and had spread its roots deep into the fabric of the earth. The natural defences it had developed allowed it to resist everything the environment threw at it, including some of the most violent storms that had ever visited the area. The oak withstood it all with almost complete immunity, and it seemed that it would be like that always. Unfortunately, this wasn’t to be.
If the tree had eyes and could look down from its vantage point, it would have seen an enemy slowly approaching on the far side of the hill. That enemy was man.
History was busy repeating itself. As had happened so many times before in so many different places, the nearby town was expanding.
As the businesses arrived and flourished, so people were drawn to the jobs. As the population grew, so did the need for housing. Sadly, where so many who had visited before saw a picture postcard, the developers saw nothing more than open land with just a few shrubs and an oak tree standing between them and a hefty profit.
The onslaught was rapid and devastating. Bulldozers arrived to cut huge shelves into the northern side of the sloping green pasture. Roads were laid to lace the shelves together and so the building work began. Each piece of levelled land was graced with a terrace of cheap houses, a low rise block of flats or the occasional semi-detached.
In the drawings that had been submitted to the local council, plans had been made to preserve the young oak in the back garden of one of the uppermost semi-detached houses. However, as the heavy machinery began peeling the top off the hill to create the final sheet of foundations, it became clear that somewhere along the way a miscalculation in the planning stage had left the tree right on the boundary of two properties. To save on time consuming and costly remedial work, a fat brown envelope was placed in the hands of the right inspector and sadly, the fate of the proud, healthy young tree was sealed.
It happened late on a Friday evening when most of the construction workers had long since left. Over the years, the oak had endured the most treacherous of weather with barely a creak in its branches, but it was no match for the cold, hardened steel teeth of the tree surgeons cutting equipment. By Monday morning there was nothing left but a smouldering pile of ash and a shallow dip in the ground.
