French Letter: Should I be worried for the future of France’s forests?
One of the glories of France is its woodlands. There are trees everywhere. There is hardly a department that doesn’t have its share of forests. In Europe, only Sweden, Finland and (to my surprise) Spain have more trees.
But something is happening. All over the country, huge piles of logs are appearing on roadsides, waiting to be trucked away. Where I live, in the Côtes d’Armor – one of the least densely-wooded departments – there is hardly a commune that isn’t busy harvesting its trees.
Ten years ago, tree-felling was largely confined to the needs of the rural population, most of whom use wood-burning stoves either instead of or alongside central heating to keep their homes warm during the long winter months.
But supply and demand appeared to be in balance. Trees that were felled after 20 years were replaced by saplings. Meanwhile, the national forests – fôrets domaniale – some planted as long ago as the thirteenth century, were carefully managed so that they continued to welcome visitors and provide homes for a variety of wild creatures.
But all is not what it seems. From our kitchen window, I can see what looks to be a dense forest – one that provided a welcome windbreak during a recent storm. But the truth is, the wood is only about ten trees deep.
Beyond are fields of maize, some of which, in late October, remain to be taken in. The hillside visible from my front gate used to boast a line of oaks – maybe thirty in all – that have since been cut down to increase the land area accessible to combine harvesters.
The road to our local pub passes two huge log piles. Or at least it did. Whoever carried out the most recent cull – almost certainly under the direction of the commune – has been busy ever since removing the evidence. The next time I see the trees in question, they are likely to take the form of wood pellets, packed in plastic and racked up in supermarkets at €3.89 for a 15-kilogram bag.
On major roads, loads of much larger trees, their trunks a metre wide and more, are an increasingly common sight. Perhaps they are all bound for Notre Dame, the rebuilding of which in downtown Paris, following the 2019 fire, has required the felling of more than a thousand specially chosen oaks, up to two centuries old. Or the wood could on its way to being processed for use in the construction of new public buildings, 50 per cent of the content of which must from next year be fabricated from wood or wood-based products.
An example of the latter is the 2024 Olympic Village, now going up in Saint-Denis just north of the capital. Under the new Sustainability Law, all buildings over eight storeys high intended to house the world’s top athletes for the duration of the Games must be made of wood, and the result is an entire timber-based township that when the Olympic flame is doused will be given over to social housing.
But there are other factors at work, too. China and Russia have in recent years reduced the volume of hardwoods – known in France as bois exotique – available for export. Previously able to indulge the hypocrisy that it was protecting its own supplies of ancient timber, France has thus had to step up domestic production.
The statistics can be bewildering. In 2010, France boasted 16.7 million hectares of forest, natural and planted, covering a staggering 31 per cent of its land area. But, since the turn of the century, there has been a decrease in tree cover of 7.3 per cent. Last year alone, some 21,000 hectares were cut down.
It’s not all bad news. Trees have been planted, too, not least in the cities, as part of the government’s drive towards a carbon-neutral economy by 2050. What cannot be denied is the steady assault on supply intended to keep up with a demand that, ironically, is fueled by the best of green intentions.
Ecologists will tell you that trees are the key to the Earth’s long-term survival. Young trees give out carbon, old trees absorb it. So the more young trees we cultivate and then fell, just as they begin to approach maturity, the more carbon will be released and the more old trees we leave alone, the better.
Where I live, the nearest forest of any size is the Fôret de Beffou, covering 630 hectares, traversed by a Roman road and home to thousands of deer and wild boar, though not, these days, to bears and wolves. If it’s predators you’re after, you need to visit the forests of the Alps and Pyrenees, which extend for mile after mile in the foothills and lower slopes of the mountains.
Brittany’s greatest forest, which, to my shame, I have yet to visit, is the enchanted Fôret de Brocéliande, covering 9,000 hectares west of Rennes. The forest is steeped in Arthurian legend and is supposedly home to Merlin’s tomb – though how, when he hears his country’s call, the great wizard is supposed to know that it is England to whose cause he must hasten, is not entirely clear.
In the Île de France, surrounding Paris, are the vast wooded estates of Fontainebleau and Compiègne, in the latter of which Julius Ceasar won a famous battle against the Gauls and in which, nearly two thousand years later, Germany signed the Armistice in 1918 and Hitler accepted the surrender of the French in 1940.
Those who know about such things assure me that all is well and that the French know what they are doing when it comes to trees. I hope so, for the noise I like least when I go for a walk in the woods – apart, perhaps, from that of gunfire – is the sour, shrill sound of the chainsaw.