THE tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart. We have enjoyed an era in which a countrywoman has held the reins and now, God Save the King, we have a countryman successor. Our new king has always lent a sympathetic ear to forestry; indeed he is patron of Woodland Heritage as I write and it is sincerely to be hoped that he will find time, in his new life and different priorities, to continue to support WH.

We have heard all manner of impressions and anecdotes over the last few weeks about people’s personal contacts with his late mother. So it will come as no surprise to you, my readers, if in all the decades of the Elizabethan Age, with King Charles waiting in the wings, this diary had several contacts with royalty.

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A very long time ago, I became forestry consultant to the Crown Estate. We were very keen on certification. I met Prince (as he was then) Charles in the splendid offices of the Crown Estate, just around the corner from Admiralty Arch. We steamed ahead, as the Crown had an extensive and somewhat scattered forestry holding, ranging from Somerset to Speyside, and from the veteran oaks of Windsor to the native pinewoods of the Highlands. The Crown Estate in many ways led the tidal wave to certification, which was duly achieved in fairly short order.

The Prince took a great interest, but remember, the woodlands were not the direct responsibility of the royal family, being part of the Crown Estate, which held all manner of property investments ranging from retail – including a significant part of Regent Street in London’s West End – to broad acres of grade-one farmland in Lincolnshire (yes, I know, but they were acres back then). The Crown Estate commissioners presided over this empire, and were less sympathetic to forestry, which was understandably somewhat down the agenda. I found myself back in the Mall, having to argue the case with the First Commissioner, a well-known peer of the realm. I like to think that having royalty on my side helped us no end. 

Shortly thereafter, I visited Windsor, where again forests ranged from splendid Scots pine, thriving on the sandy light soils of Berkshire, to truly veteran oaks in the north of the park. The woods were and are part of the Crown Estate, but the surrounding land isn’t, creating some interesting problems of legal access for valuation purposes, which I set off to investigate. First thing in the morning I spotted a slight figure on a horse some distance away, which prompted me to ask at the Windsor office as to what was the correct protocol should I inadvertently blunder into Her Majesty as I inspected the woods. Advice varied from quietly melting into the landscape, to bowing and exchanging the well-established greetings which, needless to say, I tended to favour. Sadly, I never got the chance to try it all out.

The scene shifts north. Watt the Croft was a very traditional hill sheep farmer whose neighbour had the temerity to sell 600 acres of Galloway to my client for planting. This involved calling in all the neighbours and friends to carry out a valuation of the Scottish black-faced sheep, of which there were a very good many. The traditional method, you will remember, was to drive the sheep in an orderly manner past a fixed point where a couple of referees actually carried out the count. I asked how they did it and was told the best way was to count all the sheep legs and divide by four. And not to go to sleep. Well, anyway, at the end of the day, Watty produced a bottle of Glenfarclas and proceeded to pass it round, pausing to add a drop of milk, of all things, to his own glass. I questioned him about this curious habit.

“Milk, it’s good for ye,” he replied. “They give it to babies, you know.” And his neighbour, who had done a very good deal with hill land then priced at £20 pounds an acre (say, £50 per hectare, got it?) saw fit to thank us by presenting me with a traditional shepherd’s stick, verily a crook, as a memento of the day and of his retirement from farming.

‘What’s all that got to do with the royal family?’ you may ask. Well, among the mass of subsequent press pictures and reports was a full-page photograph of His Majesty, the King, in Highland garb, kilt, tweed jacket, long socks, brogues, the lot. And in the very centre of this display, a shepherd’s stick the very image of mine, laid across His Majesty’s royal knees. 

Can this be an omen of some kind? It must have a meaning of some sort. I met the then-Prince several times in the intervening years, but never had the chance to understand better our identical choice of crook. Or stick, should I say in the presence of royalty. But my day will come. Oh yes, my day will come.

God save the King!