We nearly blew up a tree in Bradgate Park…

We nearly blew up a tree today during our walk through Bradgate Park, let's just share. Here's what happened, but wait a minute, you don't want to miss the cracking sights at Bradgate Park. Now, if you've never been, let me tell you, it's basically the land where history, wildlife and various stubborn altruists collide. And when I say altruists, I mean the kind of oaks and beaches that look like they've witnessed a thousand family picnics, a few viking raids, and maybe even your nan's childhood. Now, before you start picturing us with dynamite and hot hats, let me clarify, no actual explosives were involved. The only thing that exploded was, well, First though, if you've never been to Bradgate Park, you're missing out on one of England's most gloriously chaotic nature reserves. It's basically what happens when you take 850 acres of Leicestershire countryside, sprinkle in some medieval ruins and a generous helping of wildlife that couldn't care less about your personal space, and top it off with trees so ancient that they probably remember when the Romans were considered those new folks. Bradgate Park isn't just old, it's properly old. We're talking about a place that's been continuously grazed for over 800 years, which in historical terms is roughly equivalent to since dinosaurs learned to use smartphones. The landscape here is what ecologists call ancient parkland, which is a fancy way of saying the trees have seen things made. Walking through Bradgate is like stepping into a living that someone's been doodling in for centuries. The gnarled oaks and towering beaches aren't just trees, they're monuments to stubbornness, having survived everything from medieval hunting parties to Victorian picknickers to modern day groups of slightly unhinged walkers, not us. One of the oldest tree species on the planet probably was around when the dinosaurs were here. It's one of the few trees that was. I'm a botanist by training, I did a botany degree, I'm not very good. It began with what appeared to be a perfectly innocent English oak, but this wasn't just any oak, this was the kind of tree that looks like it could tell you stories about the doomsday book while simultaneously judging your life choices. Picture this a majestic specimen, a trunk so wide that if it were a person it would definitely need to buy two airplane seats. Its back was deeply furrowed like the face of someone who spent centuries listening to people's problems and its canopy stretched so wide it could probably shelter half of Leicester during a downpour. Right then, announce someone in our group whose name shall remain protected to spare them eternal embarrassment. Let's give this beauty a proper hug. What followed was an awkward display of human coordination. Picture this, six humans attempting to join hands around a tree trunk, a leafy victim with the determination of people who clearly never attempted collaborative tree hugging before. The first problem became apparent. This oak had a circumference that could have accommodated a small wedding party and we were definitely understaffed as some of the group developed cold feet syndrome or what can only be described as tree hugging stage fright. Staying away from this perfectly harmless oak as if it had personally insulted their ancestors, perhaps wasn't sure if it wanted to be hugged or maybe it was ticklish. If the oak could speak it would have said something In my 400 years on earth, I've been climbed by medieval children, carved with the initials of Tudor sweethearts, sheltered civil war soldiers, weathered countless storms and provided shade for generations of families. But being subjected to such an awkward group hug attempt, humans are weird as it's stoically injured are amateur dramatics. While probably wondering if climate change was really the biggest threat or us. Just then, Bridal Gate's true landlords decided to make an appearance or intervention. First came the fallow deer, those elegant spotted creatures that look like they've just stepped off the cover of Woodland Fashion Weekly. These are the deer equivalent of influencers, perfectly groomed, photogenic and seemingly aware of their own beauty. They're bounded into view with that effortless grace that makes humans look like we evolved from particularly clumsy furniture. Here's some fun facts nobody asked for but everybody needs. Fallow deer aren't actually native to Britain. They were introduced by the Normans around 1070, making them historical immigrants with better integration skills than most humans. Those ports aren't random. They're called dappling and serve as natural camouflage, though frankly in Bradgate they mostly serve to make tourists go awww. They're less timid than Poon Park, aren't they? Yeah. They'll follow deer, grow, palmate antlers that look like tiny hens, which is either adorable or slightly creepy depending on your perspective. Then came the red deer, the park's true nobility. These magnificent beasts don't just walk, they process through the landscape like they're reviewing their domain and technically they are. Red deer have been in Britain since the last ice age, which means they've got about 10,000 years of seniority on us humans. They can weigh up to 190 kg, that's roughly equivalent to two adult humans or one very well-fed golden retriever. During rutting season, males let out roars that can be heard from over a mile away, basically the wildlife equivalent of shouting oy at 3 a.m. They've been roaming Bradgate for centuries, making them the park's longest residents. I've never seen so many deer materialize around us. Not aggressively, deer are far too polite for that, but with a kind of patient judgmental watching that suggests they were waiting for us to explain the human attempt to molest their oak tree. In a look that roughly translated, this is our park. You're welcome to visit, but please behave. Trees have feelings. A young fawn bounded in circles around its mother as if to say, are all humans this weird, mom? The answer of course is we are. Now, you can wander through Bradgate Park without eventually stumbling upon its crown jewel of historical drama, the ruins of Bradgate House, birthplace of the most unfortunate monarch in English history. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days Queen, whose life story reads like a Shakespearean tragedy written by someone having a particularly bad day. Born in 1537 at Bradgate House, those ruins we're looking at. Jane was basically the Tudor equivalent of a child prodigy. She could read Greek and Latin by age nine, was fluent in French and Italian, and could probably have given most university professors a run for their money in theological debate. Unfortunately, being brilliant in the 16th century was a bit like being a unicorn. Impressive, but likely to end badly. The plot thickens. Jane's father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland, had what historians politely call ambitions, and what normal people would call a spectacularly bad plan. When young King Edward VI was dying in 1553, Northumberland convinced him to bypass his half-sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, and name Jane as his heir instead. It was a spectacular failure. On July 10, 1553, 16-year-old Jane was proclaimed Queen of England. Her reaction? Basically, thanks, but absolutely not. She reportedly fainted and tried to refuse the crown, probably thinking, I just wanted to read my books in peace, and now you want me to Nine days later, Mary Tudor gathered enough support to claim her rightful throne. Jane, who'd spent her brief reign probably wondering if it was too late to fake her own death and become a nun, was arrested, tried for treason, and executed on February 12, 1554. She was 17 years old. Standing among the ruins today, you can almost hear the echoes of Tudor court life. These crumbling walls once hosted some of the most powerful people in England. The great hall where Jane studied once rang with the conversation of nobles, scholars, and probably a fair few people plotting treason. It was 16th century. Everyone was plotting something. The ruins include parts of the great hall, chapel, and various residential buildings. It's not much to look at now, but use Picture this place in its heyday, a magnificent brick mansion with elaborate gardens, bustling with servants, horses, and the constant drama of Tudor politics. The irony, Jane, who never wanted to be queen, is now probably the most famous thing about Bradgate Park. Meanwhile, the trees she might have climbed as a child are still there, having outlived empires. There's a lesson in there somewhere about the permanence of nature versus the fleeting nature of human ambition, but mostly, it just makes you want to hug those trees even more, hopefully successfully. Just when we thought our day couldn't get any more dramatic, Mother Nature decided she hadn't quite finished with us yet. The sky began to do something peculiar. The clouds, which had been hovering ominously like disapproving relatives all day, suddenly parted. A cold miracle. A rainbow. Not just any rainbow, mind you. This was the kind of rainbow that makes you wonder if someone up there has been waiting all day for the perfect moment to deploy the special effects. A complete art, stretching from one end of Bradgate to the other, painted in colors so vivid, they looked like someone had turned up the saturation settings on reality. The signs behind the magic, for those who like their wonder with a side of fact. For the meteorologically curious among us, here's what was happening. We just experienced a classic British weather pattern known as sunshower rain. While the sun is shining, when sunlight hits water droplets in the air at just the right angle, 42 degrees, if you want to be precise, it gets refracted and reflected, splitting wildlife into its component colors. But wait, there's more. This particular rainbow was what meteorologists call a primary rainbow, with the colors arranged in the classic pattern. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too. Then it got even better. In a glorious moment, we actually got a secondary rainbow, the fainter art that appears above the primary one, with colors in reverse order. The atmospheric conditions were just right. That was double rainbow. There's something about rainbows that makes even the most cynical among us go a bit soft. Maybe it's because they're so fleeting. Here one minute, gone the next. Maybe it's because they represent hope, renewal, and all those other things that greeting cards tell us they symbolize. Or maybe it's just because. Being judged by deer for failing to hug trees, we needed something to go right. Standing there, watching this perfect arc of light stretch across the ancient landscape of Bradcade Park, even the deer seemed impressed. Pausing their eternal grazing to look up at the sky as if to say, fair play weather. And in British terms, equivalent to a standing ovation, phones came out. Of course, because if you don't Instagram a rainbow, did it really happen? Photography frenzy that turns a simple walk into an adventure worthy of its own Netflix series. Wildlife whispering. Bradcade isn't just pretty, it's what landscape historians call a palimpsest, a place where different periods of history have left their marks without completely erasing what came before. Every field, every tree, every crumbling wall tells part of a story that stretches back centuries. A few fun facts. The underlying geology here dates back 560 million years when this area was covered by a warm shallow sea. This distinctive pink granite that built Bradcade House was formed in Earth's deep past, making Park's current layout dates back to at least the 13th century when it was established as a deer park for the Gray family. Those seemingly random clumps of ancient trees, they're actually carefully managed remnants of a medieval landscape system designed to provide timber grazing and hunting opportunities. It's sublime landscapes. Our modern habit of taking photos are scenic sports. We're continuing the tradition that started with Victorian sketching parties. Today's Bradcade Park represents centuries of continuous care and management. The deer we met are descendants of herds that have grazed there. If we fail to hug properly, our protected veterans, each one a living piece of history. In a hyper-connected digitized world, places like Bradcade Park serve as essential anchors to something deeper and more permanent than our daily concerns. Thanks to Irvin for leading this walk and to Simon for his great historical knowledge. When we reached the Bradcade House ruins, Simon didn't just point and say old building. Oh no, we got the full Lady Jane Grey treatment. Birth, brief, rain, tragic and hysterical significance of what she had for breakfast on her coronation day. We experienced something increasingly rare in our modern world. Genuine connection with a place and its history. Bradcade isn't just pretty, it's what landscape historians call a palimpsest, place where different periods of history have left their marks without completely erasing what came before. Every field of all trees has a way of putting your problems in perspective. That connection, despite our spectacular tree hugging failure, we did manage to connect with each other, with the landscape and with the long chain of human history that led us to this moment. When did you last see a rainbow and actually stop to appreciate it? Ta-da!