Time and the Natural World

On the seasons, the conditions of growth and learning to observe.

When I planted the Leyland cypress, I knew it would be at least a couple of years before I considered shaping it. The young tree needed time to establish its roots, to settle into the soil and begin drawing what it required from the ground around it.

Above the surface, I could see its narrow branches and dense sprays of green foliage. The newest growth appeared at the tips, a slightly lighter green than the older leaves. Beneath the soil, the roots were extending into unfamiliar ground, finding their way through spaces between stones and particles of earth.

I could observe one part of its growth. The other I had to understand without seeing.

During the first summer, I paid particular attention to the weather. Several days of strong sunlight could dry the soil more quickly than I expected, particularly around a newly planted tree whose roots had yet to extend far beyond the original root ball. I would check the ground rather than assume that a brief shower had provided enough moisture.

Winter brought a different concern. In Scotland, rain can continue for days, leaving the earth heavy and saturated. Although a cypress requires moisture, roots also need oxygen. Soil that remains waterlogged can interfere with their development, even when the foliage above ground continues to look green.

I began to understand that the age of the tree told me relatively little about how well it had established itself. Two years might have passed, but what had happened during those years mattered equally.

A long, dry summer, a wet winter, the condition of the soil and the tree's response to each season would all influence its development.

There was no way to hurry the process by turning another page of the calendar.

I have often thought about this distinction between the time we measure and the time in which things develop.

Much of my earlier working life was spent in computer science and financial technology, where time was recorded with extraordinary precision. Systems depended upon the ordering of events, the speed of transactions and the ability to process information across different intervals.

Later, when I studied machine learning, I became interested in how patterns emerge from large collections of observations. A single measurement may reveal very little. Viewed alongside thousands of others, however, relationships begin to appear. What initially seems irregular can sometimes be understood through the conditions that produced it.

I still find this fascinating.

There is something similar in watching a garden over several years. One spring may bring an abundance of new growth, another very little. A plant that flourished through a mild summer may struggle the following year when rainfall is scarce. Looking at the result without considering the preceding conditions gives us an incomplete picture.

The natural world is full of relationships that unfold over different periods of time.

Some can be observed within a day. In Provence, I have watched the morning sun move across a terrace, warming the stone gradually until the heat becomes noticeable beneath my feet. By late afternoon, the same stone may still be releasing warmth even as the air begins to cool.

Other changes require weeks, seasons or years before they become apparent.

The cypress belongs to this longer view. Its evergreen foliage gives it a sense of continuity throughout the year. Unlike the deciduous trees nearby, it does not announce autumn by shedding its leaves or standing bare through winter. Its appearance changes more gradually, through the extension of its branches, the density of its growth and the subtle differences between older and newer foliage.

Yet its growth is no less seasonal.

As the weather cools and daylight shortens, its activity slows. The tree continues to respond to its environment, even when the changes are difficult to see.

I have learned to look more closely at these transitions.

By mid-autumn, the mornings in Scotland have become noticeably colder. Moisture remains longer on the grass, the sun travels lower across the garden, and the soil takes more time to dry after rain. The surrounding trees begin to lose their leaves, revealing branches that have been hidden since spring.

The cypress remains green among them.

It is around this time that I find myself assessing its shape and considering whether any trimming is needed. I prefer to allow a young tree to establish itself before making unnecessary changes, and I pay attention to its condition as well as the weather. With Leyland cypress, substantial trimming is generally better undertaken earlier in the growing season, so an autumn inspection does not necessarily mean taking the shears to it.

There is a difference between recognising that something needs attention and deciding that the moment has arrived to act.

This has become one of the more interesting aspects of gardening for me. Observation develops over time. I remember how the tree responded to the previous summer, whether its new growth was vigorous in spring and how the ground behaved after prolonged rain. Each season adds something to my understanding.

The calendar provides a useful framework, but the tree has its own history within it.

Our lives, too, are shaped by more than the number of years that have passed.

We speak of time as though it moves at a constant pace through our experience, yet an hour can feel entirely different depending on how it is spent. An afternoon absorbed in reading may pass before we notice the changing light. A period of waiting can seem unusually long. A familiar scent or landscape can return us to an earlier time with an immediacy that no calendar could explain.

The measured duration remains the same. Our experience of it does not.

Living between Scotland and the south of France has made me particularly aware of how place influences that experience. The same month brings different temperatures, different qualities of light and different stages of growth. The rhythm of a day changes with the landscape and the season.

In Provence, the intensity of summer sunlight often draws activity towards the cooler hours. In Scotland, the short days of winter make the return of evening light in spring especially noticeable. These are small adjustments, but over time they influence how we inhabit a place.

Modern life allows us to organise ourselves with remarkable independence from such conditions. Artificial light extends our working hours. Technology enables communication across time zones, and our schedules continue regardless of the weather outside.

I value these possibilities. They have been part of my working life for many years.

Still, I wonder whether our ability to measure and organise time has sometimes made us less attentive to the conditions through which it passes.

The cypress has no awareness of the two-year period I originally allowed for its establishment. Its development depends on the light it receives, the moisture available to its roots, the quality of the soil and the effects of each preceding season.

What matters is the growth that has taken place, much of it beyond my sight.

I can return to the garden, examine its branches and compare them with how they looked the previous year. I can recognise the lighter tips of new foliage and the places where the tree has become fuller. But I cannot reduce its development to the simple fact that another year has passed.

And perhaps this is what continues to draw my attention to the natural world.

Time is visible in the changing light, in the weathering of stone, in the growth of trees and in the return of familiar seasons. Yet each of these changes carries the influence of what came before.

The cypress stands in the garden through another autumn, its foliage still green as the surrounding trees begin to empty. I look at the growth along its branches, remember the weather of the summer and consider what the coming winter may bring.

For now, I leave it to grow.