THIS week, I was sitting by a small cherry tree waiting for my son to come out of school. The tree grows on the edge of the playground, where once I played.

The tree is much younger than me but, as I waited in the sunshine, it brought a memory to me of another, similar tree.

It was from 43 years ago; I was 17 years old and on a ‘forced march’ during my army basic training. We’d been given a short break and I remember finding the shade of a small cherry tree to rest under. We had no idea how long the break would be, it was up to our corporal. When he blew his whistle, we’d be up again. So I savoured every minute of the break, feeling exhausted.

My shoulders were painful from carrying my kit and I was glad to be able to ease the weight. I rested my SLR (rifle) against the tree and took huge gulps of water. I watched the corporal wander about us, his whistle in hand. There were times I thought he had an almost sadistic streak in his character, although now, as I look back, I understand he was doing his job.

“Just another five minutes,” I begged in a secret whisper, as I finally felt my stitch begin to fade and my heartbeat calm.

I took my eye off the corporal and noticed my immediate surroundings. We were by a clump of trees, perhaps the remnants of an old wood. The cherry tree was on its own, standing apart from the other trees, which were mostly ash.

We were on exercise somewhere near the South Downs in England. I was stationed at a place called Keogh Barracks near Aldershot. It seemed a long way from home but, during my short time in the army, I learnt what comradeship felt like. I would not have been able to complete that march without the help of my friends.

While we’d been marching, I’d only noticed the movement of my feet, my breathing, the various pains in my body and the limits of my endurance. But in these minutes, I connected to the nature around me.

Just beyond the shade of the cherry tree, there were some flowers I’d never seen before. They stood shin high and had vivid purple petals of an unusual shape. I didn’t know what they were but their beauty fascinated me.

One stood close to me and I studied its details. I wasn’t the only one to do so: a bee hovered by it and I watched it curl round the flower as it decided which part to visit. I remember thinking how, right there in front of me, there was a different world, sharing the same space but mostly unnoticed, at least by us exhausted squaddies. In those circumstances, the gift of it seemed even more powerful.

Then the corporal blew his whistle and my trance was broken. A frenzied rush took place to pull ourselves up, get our kit back on and into formation, to continue the march. We were not far from the finish line but by this time I wasn’t measuring in miles so much as remaining reserves of energy.

We’d marched for a few minutes when I suddenly realised I’d left my rifle leaning against the tree! A bolt of terror ran through my body; how do I tell the corporal? He was running beside us, but I hesitated to say anything, knowing that I’d committed a military cardinal sin.

But I had no choice.

“Corporal!”

“Silence in the ranks!”

“Corporal, I’ve forgotten my gun.”

“HALT!”

The corporal’s angry expression and body language said more than his words.

He quick-marched me back to the tree, while my squad got an extra few moments of rest.

There was my rifle, resting lazily in the shade of the cherry tree.

I cannot repeat the words the corporal used, but the essence of his remarks were I was a useless waste of space and how on earth could I forget my rifle.

I felt it was fair comment and a fair question. I’d let myself and my friends down. I felt ashamed. But is was about to get worse because I told him the truth, pointing to the flowers.

There are moments in our lives we won’t forget and, for me, this was one of them.

I really thought the corporal’s head was going to explode he was so angry. He’d run out of insults and it looked like he wanted to hit me. But he didn’t.

He mockingly told everyone, of course, but since the corporal regularly insulted us with names, nobody believed I was literally looking at flowers.

I had to keep my rifle raised above my head for the rest of the march. It was only with the secret help of my comrades that I was able to complete it.

The thing is, while this memory is an old one, shared before, it’s only recently I’ve understood what it means for me.

I’ve come to realise that my love of nature was my therapy in adolescent years. I’d experienced a number of things which, these days, would be described as adverse childhood experiences, including the death of my father just after my 12th birthday, followed by domestic violence by my mother’s new partner.

That’s why I left home at 15 and joined the army when I was 17. I wasn’t cut out to be a good soldier, I had joined the army as an escape. But it wasn’t a mistake, it was a lesson.

The encounter with the cherry tree and flower was because of my inner connection to nature, not as a scientific interest but a spiritual one. Throughout my life, I’ve had a love of nature, although I didn’t fully understand its therapeutic role until I was in my later years.

The importance of being in nature is now recognised as a vital part of our mental health. There are so many trees and places of nature which have played a crucial role in supporting me through hard times and I remember them all, including the wee cherry tree at my son’s school which saw us through the lockdowns.

I soon discovered that the flower was an early purple orchid. It taught me that I wasn’t wrong but I was in the wrong place. From then on, things changed, which is why it has, ever since, been my favourite flower.