{"id":55986,"title":"Birkon, the Iron-Tree of Birkenhead","description":"From the Greengatherer\u2019s JournalBirkenhead is a place of layers.  Roads cross older roads. Buildings occupy ground that has served other purposes","content":"

From the Greengatherer\u2019s Journal<\/strong><\/p>

Birkenhead is a place of layers.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Roads cross older roads. Buildings occupy ground that has served other purposes. Walls disappear but sometimes leave their lines behind.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

And amongst all of that, occasionally, there is a tree.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Birkon is one of them.<\/p>

<\/p>

\"gn2wzijf2fl7ewqewlvzd1hj4cg7gcx2wg1ualtnp78mcf7f.jpg.jpg?w=1140&project=beastly-boroughs-416041&v=2\"\u00a0<\/p>

He stands in an open piece of ground within the town, old enough that I have never discovered who first decided he should remain there.<\/p>

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His bark is unusually dark.<\/p>

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That isn't why they call him the Iron-Tree.<\/p>

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Three Knocks<\/strong><\/p>

I first heard the sound on an autumn evening.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

It was late enough for the day's traffic to have thinned, although Birkenhead was certainly not quiet. Somewhere beyond the trees an engine started. A door slammed. Footsteps crossed the pavement behind me.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Then:<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Knock.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I stopped.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

A few seconds passed.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Knock. Knock.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

The sound came from Birkon.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Not from his branches.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

From somewhere inside the trunk.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I put one hand against the bark.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Nothing.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u201cThat,\u201d I told him, \u201cwas definitely you.\u201d<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Birkon made no further contribution.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Iron<\/strong><\/p>

I returned the following evening.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

This time I brought a small torch and considerably more patience.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Birkon looked exactly as he had before.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I checked the ground around him. There was no loose metal, no railing striking against anything and no obvious explanation for the sound.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I waited.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Nothing happened.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I waited longer.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Still nothing.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Eventually I decided that standing beside a tree in Birkenhead waiting for it to knock was not the best use of an evening.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I had taken perhaps six steps when I heard it.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Knock.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I turned around.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Birkon stood beneath the streetlight.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

For just a moment, something caught the light between the ridges of his bark.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

A narrow line.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Dark silver.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Then a car passed, its headlights swept across the tree, and the line was gone.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Beneath the Bark<\/strong><\/p>

The next morning I inspected Birkon in daylight.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

His trunk was wood.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I feel this should be recorded.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I found no silver line and certainly no iron.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

There were scars in the bark, old marks and places where the tree had grown around injuries received years before.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

One scar interested me.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

It formed an almost perfect straight line.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I traced it with one finger.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

From somewhere beneath my hand came a faint vibration.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I stepped backwards.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Nothing followed.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

A woman walking past noticed me staring at the tree.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u201cBeen knocking again, has he?\u201d<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I looked at her.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

She kept walking.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I hurried after her.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u201cExcuse me. What did you say?\u201d<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

She smiled.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u201cOld Birkon.\u201d<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Then she crossed the road.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

The Iron-Tree<\/strong><\/p>

I have tried since to discover where the name came from.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I have been given several explanations.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

One person told me there was once iron buried beneath his roots.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Another said something metal had grown into the trunk many years ago.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Someone else insisted the name had nothing to do with metal at all.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Nobody could tell me who first called him Birkon.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

This is not unusual.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Old names are very good at surviving the people who knew what they meant.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I still pass him occasionally.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

In daylight he is simply an old tree standing amongst the changing streets of Birkenhead.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

But after dark, when traffic thins and individual sounds become easier to distinguish, I sometimes stop.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Usually there is nothing.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Once, just as I was leaving, I heard three knocks from somewhere inside the tree.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I did not knock back.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

I have occasionally wondered whether that was impolite.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

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