THE BOY WHO PLANTED A WOOD
My name is William Ashford, and I was born in a tiny village nestled in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. For as long as I can remember, my grandad would tell me stories of how, back in his day, the hill opposite our cottage was blanketed in trees, dotted with crystal-clear streams, and alive with birdsong from dawn till dusk.
By the time I was eight, that hill was barecracked, eroded earth and a silence so heavy it ached. One day, I asked Grandad, “Why arent there any trees left?”
“Because they chopped em all down to sell the timber,” he said, shaking his head. “And the land grew tired.”
“Whos going to plant them again, then?”
“Someone who cares more about tomorrow than their own comfort today.”
That night, I couldnt sleep. It felt like Grandad had handed me a mission.
The next morning, I grabbed an old biscuit tin, filled it with soil, and planted a handful of birch seeds Id found by the footpath. I hadnt a clue if itd work, but every day I carried water from the brook to keep them alive. When the first sprout pushed through, something inside me lit uplike a tiny piece of hope had decided to stick around.
I kept at it, scattering seeds in our garden first, then along the nearby slopes. The neighbours would chuckle, “Will, youre wasting your time, lad.”
But I remembered Grandads words.
Eventually, other kids joined in. Every Saturday, wed trek up the hill with water bottles, seeds, and makeshift trowels bent from old tin cans. Some saplings withered; others clung on. We learned to fence them off from sheep and prop stones around them to trap the rain.
By fifteen, over 3,000 trees had taken root on that hill. The change was realbirds returned, the soil held water better, and after heavy rains, little streams would gurgle to life again.
The local radio picked up the story, then a newspaper in London. One day, a bloke from an environmental charity knocked on my door. “Will,” he said, “fancy some help planting more trees?”
I didnt hesitate.
With their support, we got proper tools, gloves, andbest of allnative saplings. They even taught us how to help the whole ecosystem recover. Grandad, by then quite frail, hugged me tight and whispered, “Now youre seeing tomorrow, my boy.”
Today, Im 24 and studying environmental science. That once-barren hill is now a young woodover 25,000 trees strong. Its not perfect, but its home to woodpeckers, squirrels, foxes, and folks who love a shady stroll.
Whenever I visit, I run my hands over the trunks and think how theyll stand long after Im gone. And I like to imagine some child, fifty years from now, tugging their grandads sleeve and asking, “Who planted all this?”
And hearing back, “A boy who cared more about tomorrow than his own comfort today.”
