In winter beech forests, the change is stark. Trunks stand pale and bare. The ground opens up. Distance becomes visible. And yet not everything withdraws.
At this time of year, it is the evergreens that draw the eye. Holly in the understorey. Ivy climbing old trunks and spilling across fallen branches. Yew, here and there, holding its dark, dense presence among the lighter trees. These plants were not just noticed in winter. They were watched.
Across the Low Countries and beyond, evergreens were thought to shelter what remained active in the forest through the dark weeks. Not spirits in the theatrical sense, but continuities. Life that refused to go entirely dormant. Ivy, especially when it climbed old beech or marked long-standing boundaries, was usually left untouched. It was understood as cover rather than clutter.
Ivy’s grip on beech bark was read as persistence rather than intrusion. Removing it at this point in the year was seen as unnecessary interference, at a moment when the forest was holding itself together.
Holly was treated differently. Small branches were sometimes taken, often from hedges or secondary growth rather than deep woodland, and brought indoors. Prickled leaves at the door or hearth were not decoration as we think of it now, but a sign that the forest still endured beyond the threshold of the house.
In the beech forest, evergreens do not dominate. They persist. And in the days before the solstice, persistence was enough.
Three days to the solstice.