The Tree Climber’s Guide. Jack Cooke

Canal

      Quercus cerris/Turkey oak

      Drizzle tries to pockmark the canal, a greasy surface film repelling the rain. As I tramp along the tow path, everything seems to bleed into the water. Behind the iron railings bounding the canal, tall trees stalk the fringe of Victoria Park: planes, willows and horse chestnuts. They stand to attention, upright and aloof, offering not one branch to the waterside.

      I turn back at a bridge with ‘Arse’ scrawled across the arch in lollipop red, before catching sight of a great crossbar of a tree, a large oak growing at an acute angle to the ground. I hop the fence to take a closer look.

      The climb is straightforward but the rain has rendered the bark black and slippery, and the angle steepens as I ascend. The oak’s rough contours create just enough friction to cling on, a good choice for a wet day. I slither up like a snail, chest to the tree, terrified of spinning under the sodden trunk and falling on my back.

      Reaching the stunted canopy, I am wearing a merman’s clothing, a dark green lather covering my hands and jeans. The oak’s branches form a square border beneath my feet, perfectly framing a patch of grass twenty feet below. Level with my nose, a bunch of acorns hangs between the leaves; their deep cups are covered with overlapping scales, a hallmark of the Turkey oak.

      Something crosses my hand and disappears into a crevice in the wood. When climbing trees I often get the sense that I’ve just missed their other occupants, half-seen creatures that burrow back into the trunk as my shadow crosses them. They inhabit vast sub-cities, beyond the realm of human sight and hearing.

      Perched on my summit branch the angle of the tree makes me feel exposed, like being offered up on a spoon to some passing giant. Out on the water, puffs of wood smoke drift up from a line of canal boats, their owners conversing in signal plumes. A wide barge, barely contained by the channel, is pushed past by a small grey tug, jugging along with its helmsman half-asleep by the wheel. Rain begins to pool on my lap and I climb down to find my own fireside.

The Golden Fleece, Little Venice

      Liriodendron tulipifera/Tulip tree

      Two canals meet in Little Venice, and at their junction the clean-bordered lawn of Rembrandt Gardens drops to the water’s edge. Spreading across the southern end is a tall tulip tree. At the tail end of October its notched leaves are a cascade of liquid gold, turning the tree into a glowing tower.