Remembering Sycamore Gap 3 years on: a local poet’s heartfelt tribute

If you’ve ever walked the Hadrian’s Wall path near Once Brewed, you’ll know the spot: a dip between two crags where a lone sycamore once stood, framed perfectly against the sky.

Tomorrow marks three years since the Sycamore Gap tree was felled with a chainsaw in the early morning of 28 September 2023, and the loss still stings for all of us who grew up with it on our doorstep.

Planted in the late 1800s by the landowner John Clayton, the tree found fame in the 1991 film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and was named English Tree of the Year by the Woodland Trust in 2016.

Northumberland-based poet, musician and writer Liane Todd has marked the anniversary with The Ballad of the Sycamore Gap: From Roots to Ruin. Her work is rooted in the landscapes, heritage and memories of the North East, and this piece traces the tree’s story from Roman soldiers and resting shepherds to that night in 2023.

It doesn’t end in ruin, though. The tree’s legacy is already growing: 49 saplings, one for each foot of the tree’s height when it was felled, have been gifted to communities around the country and the largest remaining section of the tree is now on permanent display at The Sill: National Landscape Discovery Centre.

As Liane puts it, hope whispers softly through the pain.

THE BALLAD OF THE SYCAMORE GAP: FROM ROOTS TO RUIN

They called it lone, yet it stood with grace,
Cradled by Hadrian’s wall in a sacred place.
A sentinel tree in a wind-carved fold,
Framed by time and the stories it told.

It watched the Romans march and fade,
Shepherds resting within its shade,
Beneath its crown, lovers would meet,
And weary walkers could rest their feet.

Rooted deep in the Northern stone,
It never once stood quite alone.
For the land was its kin, and the sky its friend,
Each leaf a prayer that the winds would send.

Photographers came, in dawn’s first blush,
Pilgrims paused in reverent hush.
A place where silence spoke so loud—
A tree, a gap, a soul unbowed.

But oh! the night the chainsaw screamed—
It tore through more than bark, it seemed.
One senseless act, and all was stilled,
A monument of memory killed.

From roots to ruin, the news did spread—
As if the land itself had bled.
Not just a tree, but hearts were broken,
By theft of beauty, bold and brazen.

Yet still—
From stump and soil and shattered frame,
Hope whispers softly through the pain.
For nature mourns, but never yields—
And life may yet reclaim these fields.

A sapling waits in hidden sleep,
A promise planted, buried deep.
And we, the keepers of its lore,
Will guard it now forevermore.

— Liane Todd

To request a copy of Liane’s booklet, Echoes of Time, or to pre-order her upcoming collection, Postcards from the North, please contact her directly at [email protected].