Aspen

Trees of Ireland series: Final edition

Introduction

Today, I want to return once more to the talk of trees - perhaps for the last time in this series. It feels right to close the circle here, as we cross through Samhain and enter the Celtic New Year, which falls on November 1st. We are moving into the darkest time of the year, the long stretch between now and the Winter Solstice. These are the days descending toward midwinter. And though, when Solstice arrives, we know there are still many long nights ahead, there’s a palpable relief in the knowledge that each day will now bring a little more light.

Right after the Solstice, that increase is almost imperceptible, just twenty seconds more daylight each day. By early January, the change gathers pace, with roughly a minute added daily. As February arrives, the lengthening quickens further, stretching by two or three minutes each day. Around the Spring Equinox, near March 20th, the shift reaches its swiftest rhythm, close to four minutes of new light daily - before easing again as the sun climbs toward midsummer.

Nature, and all its creatures, are taking stock. When I move about my work sheds, I’m often greeted by a butterfly hidden in some cool, shady corner - a Small Tortoiseshell, usually, for they overwinter and wake again in spring. Sometimes I find them resting on the backs of curtains. If you see one, don’t move it; just let it be.

The trees around us these past weeks have been a great source of joy - their colours lighting up the landscape in a final farewell before the leaves fall. Like painters laying out their works for us to admire, whether along canal paths, roadsides, or even motorways, they transform before our eyes: shifting from the season of growth to one of dormancy, preservation, and preparation for winter. This change is signalled by the slow withdrawal of chlorophyll as the greens fade to reveal the golds, reds, and ambers beneath.

These are days of thinning veils. Indeed, the great mythological figure of this time - the Cailleach, the Woman of the Veil - draws our attention to the gathering darkness, the long descent, and the deeper return. I’ve been thinking often of what the trees can teach us about surrendering to this process.

So, Aspen and Elder - let us begin.

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Aspen

Of all the trees of Ireland, few seem so alive to the wind as the aspen. Every tree has its own markers - those unique features that help us recognise it - but the aspen is perhaps the only tree with an audible signature. Its Latin name attests to this: Populus tremula, the trembling poplar.

Its leaves, rounded and finely toothed, tremble at the faintest breath, so that an entire grove can appear to shimmer. The sound is unmistakable - a rustling murmur. The sight too is striking: masses of leaves angled slightly downward, shifting left and right in quick motion, playing with the light like an explosion of delicate rattles moving in unison with the wind. In Irish it is crann creathach - “the trembling tree.” What other name could this tree possibly have?

In Irish folklore, the crann creathach was known for the way its leaves never stay still. People saw that restless movement as a sign the tree was sensitive to unseen things, tuned in to the invisible world alongside our own. The whisper of its leaves was said to be the tree talking with spirits or praying without end. Some even believed it trembled because its wood was once used to make the Cross of Christ. Though it wasn’t counted among the noble trees of Irish law, aspen had its uses in charms and protection. Since it spreads more by its roots than by seed, it came to stand for unseen continuity, the living thread that runs quietly beneath the surface of things, not unlike the mycelium network I wrote about recently.

Aspen likely arrived naturally after the last Ice Age. Its seeds are tiny and wind-borne, able to travel long distances, drifting here winds from Britain or mainland Europe. Interestingly, the Irish aspen rarely flowers; it spreads instead through its roots, sending out underground shoots that rise again as new stems. What seems like a stand of separate trees is in fact one great tree, patiently populating the space around it. Some groves may be many centuries old, effectively renewing themselves with each generation. A factor that reminds me of the yew tree and how it sends up a new fresh shoot through the centre of its decaying older one.

The wisdom of the aspen also finds expression in its plant medicine associations. In the Bach Flower system, Aspen is the remedy for unknown fears - those unsettling sensations that arise without clear cause. It helps restore a sense of trust and safety. In herbal medicine, aspen bark, like willow, is rich in salicylates, making it effective for easing pain, fever, and inflammation. Altogether, it’s a useful and kind companion to have by our side.

I can’t think of the aspen without remembering a favourite tree that once stood beside the Royal Canal, near where I grew up. I visited it often, leaning my back against its trunk or climbing onto its lowest limbs. It was a giant - more than two metres across at the base - the largest tree I knew. What drew me there again and again? Perhaps in those years of seeking and questioning, it offered a constant, a deeply rooted, ever shimmering presence, reflecting whatever weather the day brought.

But I knew it was dying. I watched some of its great branches fade, its uppermost leaves wither in drought. One day I found that the lowest branch - massive, wider than many trees - had been cut for safety. It lay on the ground, the very branch I had climbed upon so often. Soon after, when I walked the canal again, the great aspen was gone, felled to the ground. I never discovered exactly why, but I imagine those responsible for the safety of that busy path decided it had become too dangerous to leave standing.

I mourned its passing, and for months after I returned to sit upon its trunk, its severed limbs lying around me. Then, one day, I noticed tiny shoots emerging - fragile young aspens sprouting up nearby, as though to whisper that the great tree had not departed just yet.

So here we are, before the Aspen, the trembling one, guardian of the land in its own unassuming wisdom. A tree that stands at the delicate threshold between worlds, teaching us how to listen. For in the beginning, there was the sound. It teaches us to attune ourselves to the subtle presences arounbd us, without losing our footing, to understand that endings are never final.

As I write these words, the lightest breeze drifts through the garden, carrying a soft rustle of leaves that draws my gaze to another aspen, a memory, a reflection of a past giant that once stood outside the farmhouse where I live. That tree too was felled, a casualty of time and storms, its strength waning under the Atlantic gales that swept relentlessly through the landscape. I had watched it tremble, the very base of its trunk quivering under the force of the wind, and though my heart was willing to live with the risk of its collapse, the owners of the house were not.

Last winter, while I was thankfully away, it was taken down. Yet life persists. Now, a twelve-foot-high trunk remains, and the tree has not surrendered. From it, new branches, thin, delicate ones, in great number, are sprouting, gathering around the trunk as though to protect it, to close around the gaping wound at the top, to give it time to close over and protect itself fully. It is a testament to resilience.

It reminds me of my old friend in Leixlip.

I am the voice of the trembling air,
The spirit that quivers unseen,
I am the silver shadow’s prayer,
Between the worlds I lean.

Kathrine Raines 'The Voice of the Aspen'

Until next time one and all

Thank you joining me here today.

I’m always happy to hear your own reflections and observations.