Nine Barrow Down

There are few trees hardy enough to consider attempting tenure on the seaward side of the Purbeck Hills, even fewer on the summit, rarely free of strong winds as it is. There's no season in which the Isle of Purbeck isn't at the mercy of the weather, and today was no exception, a brisk chill wind raked the hills. There's one tree though, a Hawthorn, which stands, or rather bows, on the bare ridge, close to a group of prehistoric burial mounds, the oldest over 5000 years. It's right to see Hawthorn and mound together, both having close association with the fay, both being home to faeries or gateway's to their world. The hawthorn looks as if weirdly trained by a mad arborist, though it's been shaped by the elements, or rather, one element. It's strength and tenacity in holding firm against that element is visible in its contorted form, it has clearly adopted a bend rather than break mentality, and that has served it well. It's still here, the winds haven't won, as yet.