Back in May, after winter and the slow creep of early spring, I took myself along a disused railway line near Lewes, Sussex, to be consumed by the month’s riot. This barely used path was somewhat overgrown – nettles and cow parsley brushed my legs, while fresh growth in the canopy stole the bluest sky.
Birds shouted from every branch, butterflies spilled from every flower. There were scurrying beetles, hungry nestlings and rustles of larger things in the undergrowth. There were nibbled leaves, mining bees and pollen-loaded bumblebees. The first cuckoo. Clouds of flies hanging languidly on the sticky air. It was too warm for the time of year, of course, but it felt magical. For a moment, surrounded by all this life, I felt abundance.
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Standing tall over this spring riot was a line of mature oak trees. Their leaves were the freshest spring green and their male flowers hung in luxurious dangling clusters. What abundance have these trees known over the years that they miss now, I wondered. Who have they nourished and provided homes for, that have reciprocated in a myriad of ways? An oak tree can support some 2,300 species, from insects to birds, bats and other mammals that feast on its acorns in autumn. How does my spring baseline, with all its apparent loudening, compare to theirs?
The oak is steeped in folklore. Many ancient cultures revered it as a symbol of growth and plenty, with summer personified by the Oak King, dressed in green and crowned with oak leaves and acorns, with a face of sprouting oak leaves. The Oak King is a figure of fertility, of the swell of spring and waxing of the sun, as told through the pagan festivals of Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane and Litha.
By contrast, the Holly King represents the waning sun and the shrinking of growth after the summer solstice, marked by the festivals Lughnasa, Mabon, Samhain and Yule. The Holly King is the ruler of winter and is clothed in red, with a crown of holly leaves and berries.
Nobody notices holly in spring – there’s too much else going on. There will have been some on my walk on that sunny May day, but I didn’t notice it. An evergreen species, the holly’s glossy foliage is drowned out by the new growth of its deciduous cousins, its inconspicuous green-white flowers blooming only from the sidelines.
The red berries, when they come, have their big moment in winter, standing out among the skeletons of neighbouring leafless branches. So valuable is the holly berry that entire fruiting trees are fiercely protected by mistle thrushes, who defend this precious food source from rival birds all winter. They do such a good job that the berries sometimes remain into spring.
In folklore, the Oak King and Holly King battle on each solstice, with the Holly King reigning from Litha (the summer solstice) and the Oak King taking over at Yule (the winter solstice). Some traditions place the rising power of these two giants at the equinoxes, but it’s the solstices that mark the changing of the guard.
Do they still? Climate change is blurring the boundaries, and it seems that the Oak King and Holly King are in battle for longer. As we approach Litha, the riot of spring reaches a crescendo. Life tips from new growth and nestlings to the development of winter fuel (fruit, seeds and berries) and fledglings. Thoughts turn to southerly migrations and the days become shorter.
But nature is no longer transitioning in the usual way. After Litha, the Holly King still waits to take his crown. We need to work out how we help him, how we restore balance to the seasons.
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Top image: oak tree seedling. Credit: Getty