We stand on the edge of the copse, light dwindling, gazing up at a solemn procession of rooks moving to their winter roost. At their flanks, oblivious to the mood, jackdaws jink and swoop, playful against a ruddy sky. They sense the change; the stirring which is easier felt than observed. The subtle signs of spring are here though: the mauve alder catkins, the swelling pink buds of hawthorn, a single primrose, and something different in the air. Winter has no scent, but a warm day today has conjured the smell of burgeoning life.
My reverie is broken by a stick poking my backside. My youngest daughter is bored and requests we resume our purpose: to visit the Lady of the Woods. The Lady isn’t hard to find; she’s a splendid birch tree, a towering pale column in the gathering gloom, and, of the many gifts she offers, we are hoping to collect some sap. Her intrinsic elegance – alluded to by the colloquial name we have for her – belies a tenacious nature, that of a pioneer, and a hardy interloper among established forestry. My accompanying daughter’s middle name is Betula, Latin for birch. We knew that, born last, she would grow fast and jostle for space alongside her brother and sister.
Birch sap is usually in season around mid-February, and, sure enough, after the rising of the sycamore sap that precedes it, I noticed the telltale sign of swollen birch buds. And so yesterday I bored a shallow hole in the trunk and knocked in a sap spile (a type of metal spout with a hook from which a container can be suspended). Now, 24 hours later, the two-litre bottle is full and, when I remove it for emptying, the clear sap trickles in a steady stream from the spout. My own little sapling doesn’t waste a drop. Her young palate can detect the 1%-2% sugar content, but the appeal of drinking sap isn’t just in the fructose and glucose, you are engaging in an almost mythical act, imbibing the rising energy of spring.
The season is short and once it has passed, the birch will heal quickly, allowing for a sustainable annual harvest. So, while the sap runs, we will collect daily and reduce the essence of early spring to a thick sweet syrup over a wood-burning stove, and give thanks to our Lady for the sensational pancakes to come.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
