Witch’s Walk – Saturday 27th Oct,2024

On Sunday, I led the walk to the Witch’s Tree. You never know in advance how many are going to come to such events. My daughter guessed seven, I was more optimistic and reckoned there’d be ten of us. We were both wildly out as 34 showed up, half of them children. The walk started from the garden at 1.10 pm, allowing ten minutes for latecomers. A long trail of us walked north up Woodgrange towards the Flats, under the railway bridge, newly painted with its mantra: The World is Ours. The sun was shining, it was a cheerful group, enjoying a walk on a warm day.

At Wanstead Flats, we set off across the western side. I stopped the group about halfway across, so slower walkers could catch up, and gave some history. On this side, during the War were two prison of war camps, one for Italian prisoners and the other for German. There are regular fairs here, and there used to be circuses, at one time with animals but they had gone by 1990s, and the circuses themselves soon after. In 2012 for the Olympics, there was stabling here for police horses. There was a fear that having acquired the space, they would keep it. But the police left after the Games.

Round about here, three boroughs meet: Newham, Redbridge and Waltham Forest, though the Flats doesn’t belong to any of them, being administered by the London Corporation who insists on calling this area Epping Forest. Objection! Epping Forest begins at Woodford or Chingford, certainly not on Wanstead Flats.

We crossed Lake House Road, and continued alongside the football pitches, with half a dozen teams showing their mettle, with cries from the teams and spectators. The clocks had gone back the night before, so we’d all had an hour’s extra sleep, now on GMT, rather than Summer Time, though the weather seem to contradict the clocks.

I stopped the group at the edge of Bush Wood, by a lamppost and delivered a myth changer. I informed the throng that we had not come here by the quickest route, by any means. That is through a wardrobe [citation needed]. Comparable to ‘Beam me up, Scottie!’

Someone told me in a pub, I can’t recall where or who, that CS Lewis had an aunt who lived near Bush Wood and he went to stay with her on his holidays from prep school [citation needed]. At least I think it was CS Lewis, and if so it proves Bush Wood is in fact Narnia [no, it doesn’t]. More or less. The lamppost is the one that Lucy sees as she comes through the wardrobe. Nearby is Mr Tumnus’ cottage [citation needed, please!]. We were due to pop in, but there were way too many of us, and he has only three teacups.

The Witch’s Tree is not the Witches Tree, as some people believe. Only one witch lives in the tree. She was in her heyday the White Queen, also known as the White Witch, who had condemned Narnia to be a place where ‘it is always winter but never Christmas’. At the height of her power, she lived in a grand castle, Cair Paravel, but was dethroned by Aslan, the lion. With her powers diminished, and with no Turkish Delight, she is reduced to living at the top of the Witch’s Tree [citation, citation, citation!].

At night, she, atop her tree, gallops around Wanstead Flats, rather like Baba Yaga, the witch with a house on chicken legs in Slavic folk tales. On her nightly runs, if the White Witch sees anyone, she orders her tree to freeze. A lone runner, one evening, was surprised to see a tree in the middle of a football pitch. He took his disbelieving family to see it in the morning, but there was no tree.  [citation please!]

The new mythology delivered, we set off to find the tree in question. It is not easy to find. I had done several pre-walks searching for it. I knew it existed as I had been there with Newham Woodcraft Folk in the mid 90s. I had a map which showed it was close to a pond. But I couldn’t find the pond either. Then I had a thought on one of these recces. Suppose the pond had dried up. I needed to look for pond vegetation. I eventually found a large cluster of rushes, no water, but this was where the pond had been.

Via a muddy and brambly track, we arrived at the tree. A relief to me, as being in charge of 34 ramblers, having given them my blarney, I needed to find the tree! Or risk their wrath.

There it was, an old chestnut tree. I informed them that the witch was fortunately a heavy sleeper, so couldn’t hear us. The tree has quite a number of ‘legs’, necessary for tramping the Flats at night, and quite a girth. It is said to be 500 years old. Maybe. Well, it adds to its mystery, and means I am not the only storyteller. All myths are made up by someone. The teller may believe their tale, or simply tell it to make himself important. I join the club.

[Because of lack of citations, this blog has been passed on to BBC Verify.]