Hedge of eternity

As old as husbandry hedges may be, but that doesn't mean they cannot be beautiful, too. Charles Quest-Ritson considers the many options,

THE Ancient Britons planted hedges to keep their cattle in, but we plant hedges to keep them out. Thick and thorny plantings were sometimes part of the defence system of an Iron Age hill fort. Later on, hedges were used to define boundaries—not only to keep animals from trampling on their crops, but also to show where ownership begins and ends. They turn up in the Domesday Book and, a little later, were used to create deer parks, which were designed in such a way that, by careful hedging and ditching, deer could get in, but never get out again. And the Enclosure Acts were statements of ownership by the landlords and of dispossession for the peasantry. The history of hedges has much to answer for.

Agricultural hedges are always planted of one type, usually hawthorn or quickthorn. Countryside experts—the sort who live in Hampstead —tell us that you can discover the age of a hedge by counting how many different species you can find in a 30-yard stretch. Every species equals 100 years. But the formula is a load of humbug: birds bring other species much more quickly than that. First to arrive are elder and ivy. Then brambles, dog roses, ash, holly and sycamore join the party, certainly within 10 years of planting, probably within five. Keeping a hedge such as yew or beech immaculately clean and smooth is hard work: the task of maintenance begins as soon as you have planted it. And it never ends.