It’s quiet. These two words are the first to pop into my mind as I enter the Berengrave Local Nature Reserve in Rainham, Kent, UK. Though rare, silence is not unheard of in nature. You can find it on riversides just before sunrise and in snow-covered pinewoods when the temperature drops below -25 degrees Celsius. But never in the woods on an autumn morning.
Yet utter silence awaits me in Berengrave. The reserve has been flooded since last February. The damage caused can be felt in the air. Woods are usually living places, full of movement. In Berengrave, there is stillness.
I have come here to witness the beauty spot’s blight first-hand. Despite my concern for the obviously suffering reserve, I am giddy with excitement. I feel the day will not disappoint me.
A bespectacled man in his late fifties directs my attention to a plaque displaying a map of the reserve.
The man is Fraser Miller, a historian and a member of Friends of Berengrave, who are a volunteer organization dedicated to maintaining the reserve. He has performed archaeological digs in the area and is the man who almost singlehandedly discovered the history of the early 20th century chalk mine that is now covered by the reserve.
“See this,” he says, pointing at a narrow blue blot about in the middle of the map. “This is where the reserve lake is. At this time of the year it’s usually almost dry.”
He draws a large circle on the map with his finger, covering almost the entirety of the reserve land. That is the area now covered by water. He then points down, where the sloping land meets the edge of the water. There is supposed to be a bench there. It hasn’t been above the water line for months.
We begin to walk deeper into Berengrave. I notice large holes in the canopy. Eddy Newport, the constantly smiling chairman of Friends of Berengrave and second of my two guides today, tells me there are two reasons for the missing trees.
The first one is ground ivy. He points out a large piece of missing canopy and then a tree trunk on the ground, lying beside large piles of fallen branches. Its whole dead length is covered in still leafy ivy.
“That used to be there, but the ivy choked the life out of it.”
The second reason is the flood. The reserve’s soil has all accumulated there after mining activities at the site ceased in 1931 due to global recession. The layer of soil is only 18 inches deep and the flood has turned it into mud. The soft, wet ground cannot support the trees.
Indeed, I now notice that many of the trees are leaning to one side or the other. I have seen trees bend that way during the Finnish winter when the load of snow gets too heavy and the brittle frozen soil cracks under them. These trees are doing the same, but under their own weight.
“The whole sodden lot is going to go down one day. It’s very dangerous in here in winter and during wind. We were lucky to have such a calm day today,” Mr Fraser says as he walks past me, gesturing me to follow.
We continue forwards and soon reach several large blocks of concrete, each the height of a man. These are the remnants of the wash mills that were used to grind the mined chalk to slurry, Mr Fraser tells me. Here is where he performed most of his excavations.
Mr Fraser shows me a photograph and the full scale of the flooding suddenly becomes painfully clear. There are no concrete blocks in the picture, only water.
“This is what this place looked like in March,” he says. “It’s obviously dry now, but it will be flooded soon again.”
The damp soil sticks to my boots, as if to agree with Mr Fraser.
Further along the narrow path we reach a length of wooden stairs. As we climb, Mr Newport suddenly grabs the railing and begins to rock back and forth. I almost lose my balance as the whole staircase shakes. It shouldn’t.
The two men smile mischievously, and Mr Newport unfolds a pocketknife and thrusts it into the stairs. The two-inch blade sinks in completely without resistance.
As Mr Newport pulls the knife out, a chunk of rotten wood falls out. Underneath is a mass of white fungus. I mark a distinctive lack of smell in the wood. Moist, fungus-infested wood usually has a very particular stench attached to it. Even decay seems to sit still here.
The final attraction Mr Fraser wants to show me stands on top of a cliff next to the walkways a bit further along. A single tree is leaning over the cliff’s edge, with half of its root system hanging in the air. Large chunks of chalk have eroded away from beneath it and rolled down next to the walkway directly below. The tree will soon follow them.
Turning around, I at long last see a sign of life. A solitary duck sits on a tree trunk in the willow carr, which is now part of the reserve lake. It is the first animal I have seen during my visit.
“You get ducks here, moorhens. Herons, they’re after the fish. Rabbits and such are all gone. There’s a fox still living around the entrance,” Mr Fraser says.
We finally head up the steep wooden stairs, away from Berengrave. It has taken us two hours, nearly to the minute, to trek around the area. The time felt shorter in the stillness of the woods.
Before packing away into Mr Fraser’s wine-red Fiat, I look back over the treetops. Apart from a car driving by, it’s quiet.