We are slowly becoming accustomed to the idea that the world experienced by our ancestors was very different to our own, even within the span of a few millennia. Nowhere is that made clearer than when standing among the remains of a long-dead forest, especially when it lies in a landscape devoid of trees.

Many of the clues to the landscape and environment of the past are well hidden and require specialist equipment and skills to reveal and interpret them. The species and significance of a pollen grain, for example, or the patterning of mineral deposition within a soil core. These are things that would pass me by, did I not have colleagues enthusiastic enough to study them and patient enough to take the time to make sure that I understand them. But, to trip over a tree stump from the past – now, that is a different matter altogether.

One of the best places to experience preserved ancient forests is in the intertidal zone. But it is an appreciation that I have only gained in recent years. As a child, I guess I was focused on the sandcastle and rockpool potential of a beach; as a young adult, I saw them as places of beauty – good for a long walk and exercise. Now, my fascination has shifted again. I’ve been lucky enough to experience the forests of the sea in a few places now and they never cease to amaze me.

Others came to this understanding long before I. In 1913 a little book entitled Submerged Forests was published by Clement Reid, a geologist who had been collecting information as part of his work on British harbours. It is a brilliant exposition of material from around the shore. Reid appreciated that the tree remains he saw indicated that the UK had once been very different and his book includes the first published reconstruction of Doggerland, the conjoining of Britain to the continent. But Reid was not the first. Nineteenth century publications include the work of Watt and Traill Dennison in Orkney, and as far back as the twelfth century a chronicler named Gerald of Wales was commenting on the discovery of submerged tree trunks.

Nevertheless, my own journey to enlightenment has been fun. And it is an ongoing process. I do not think I will ever lose my sense of wonder at wandering among the remains of trees that were last experienced as living beings by the archaeological communities I study. Occasionally they are truly spectacular, in 2018 I was privileged to visit the submerged forests of the Minas Basin, far out in the intertidal zone at Grand Pre, in Nova Scotia. The trunks here were truly spectacular and lay a considerable distance from the shore. It was, in the original sense of the word, awesome. At home in Orkney the trunks are considerably smaller than that, but fascinating nonetheless. In the Western Isles of Scotland, the tree remains, though also smaller, bear surprising contrast to the treeless aspect of the current landscape. I’ve not visited the much-photographed trees at Borth in Wales, but they are on my wish list, and there are many others.

Of course, in some places submerged forests are associated with archaeological remains such as stone tools and this is very exciting, but, for now, I want to focus on the trees themselves. On what they mean. All bear witness to a time when relative sea-level was lower so that the landmasses of our ancestors were bigger, and trees and woodland were more common, indicators of vegetation and climatic differences to today. Past worlds were different. Of course, where they have been dated, the periods at which these woodlands flourished vary. Some date back as much as six thousand years or more, while others are more recent, a mere three or four thousand years old. We are so used to approaching the past as somewhat sterile, that the opportunity the trees provide to experience the tangible nature of the ancient world around us is, for me, an emotional one. It really brings home the type, and extent, of change that has taken place.

If you have not tried it, I would encourage you to go down to the woods today. There are opportunities around the world. All you need is a good pair of wellies. And it is good for the soul.

I’m working up a paper about the drowning of Doggerland. I’m amazed by the way in which this is described in highly emotive language by archaeological academics. To coin a phrase the ‘tags’ are all negative: devastating; killing zones; abandonment; vulnerability; increased tensions; disaster; instability; risk; stress, I have deliberately avoided assigning word to author.

At its height, at the end of the last great Ice Age, Doggerland comprised a considerable landmass and different areas of the terrain are likely to have been used by various hunter-gatherer groups. The inundation that led to the loss of this landscape took place over about six thousand years between c. 10,000 BC and c. 4,000 BC and was one of a suite of palaeoenvironmental changes that occurred at the time. It was not a steady process, at times people would have been well aware of the encroaching seas but at other times, particularly towards the end of the period, the rate of change slowed.

Our evidence suggests that many of the groups who would have been affected made use of the coastal zone and were highly sophisticated in their use of marine resources. The changes to their environment meant a rebalancing of the division between water and land. Groups in the interior may have been less flexible, as may their prey. It is interesting to ask ourselves to what extent these people felt vulnerable, or threatened, by the transitions that were taking place.

I think it unlikely that they did. Given the fact that these societies were living through a long period of environmental change, instability was their norm. They had many strategies for flexibility built into their annual lifeways and they were well equipped to survive. Low density populations; inherent mobility; sophisticated understanding of the world around them, including the coastal and marine environment; social adaptability: all of these equipped people to live in this changing world. Of course there would always be individual problems and disasters such as a particularly harsh winter, or the tsunami set off by the Storegga Slide around 6200 BC, but my interest lies in their response to the long-term transformation.

Which leaves me wondering – why the emotional reaction today to the drowning of Doggerland? Could it have more to do with our own fears? We are more populous and less flexible than our ancestors and we are very preoccupied with climate change, in particular sea-level rise and the loss of dry land. A millennia or so of perceived stable conditions have made us complacent about our lifestyle and we are suddenly worried that we may not be able to continue into the future in the way to which we have become accustomed.

It seems to me that the general theme, that surviving the loss of Doggerland must have been problematic, may relate more to our present times than to the peoples of the Mesolithic. This has been discussed in an interesting paper by Karla de Roest which is available online here and at other sites.

Whatever: Doggerland is now part of our national consciousness, depicted in a great poem by Jo Bell.