Forest fires are a terrifying and difficult-to-control phenomenon that have been making headlines more frequently. Canada, for instance, has experienced massive wildfires that have spread over millions of hectares and caused the skies of New York to darken with their fallout. Parts of California have also suffered from years of successive destructive fires. The southern regions of Spain and France have not been spared from this peril either. Even as you relax on the beaches of the Mediterranean, you may see images of fire and smoke in the nearby hinterland.
Greece is a prime example of a country that faces the annual threat of wildfires. In 2021, fires ravaged parts of Attica and devastated the woodlands of northern Euboea, an area I hold close to my heart. I have spent holidays beside these woods, written about their history, and cherished them as a valuable asset that foreign tourists often fail to appreciate. In August 2021, the fires in these woods gained international attention. Simultaneously, fires closer to Attica received more resources and attention, leaving the villagers of Euboea to rely on their own hoses and courageous self-defense efforts. Young men formed human chains to save what they could, prioritizing the safety of the elderly. They even escorted them onto boats and floated them at sea to shield them from the distressing smoke and ash. The scarcity of food and water added to the challenges they faced. Despite the devastation of 100,000 hectares of woodland, local heroes emerged from these fires. But what has happened on the ground in the aftermath?
To uncover the state of affairs, I embarked on a fact-finding mission with the assistance of local Euboeans. I took a ferry from northeast Attica to Aidepsos and then followed the roads leading to the higher mountains near the northern tip of the island. After a lush green beginning that evoked memories of the past, the landscape transformed into one of charred woodlands, mostly populated by pine trees. The fires originated near Limni, where resin used to be collected from the pine trees, serving as an important local industry that now lies in ruins.
Guided by a local delivery worker, we reached a high mountain ridge before entering the firescape, where we encountered a breathtaking view of blue anchusas and yellow verbascums, interspersed with grey-flowered Echium italicum, carpets of pink-flowered convolvulus, and yellow hypericums. The blue anchusas thrived under the open sunshine and brought to mind the garden that won the People’s Choice Award at this year’s Chelsea Flower Show. These beautiful plants, however, were placed beneath temporary trees at the show, preventing them from flourishing in a long-term garden. The pink convolvulus flourished on the mountain ridge after the fires.
Fortunately, not everything in the Euboean firescape is dead and gone. At lower elevations, bushes have started to fill in the gaps. Our Euboean guides directed us to a treasure we hardly expected to find: bushes of the rare Euboean oak, which is endemic to the island. Purple-blue salvia and blue rosemary thrive alongside these oaks, taking advantage of the lack of shaded areas. Clumps of the local hellebore, Helleborus cyclophyllus, also flourish. In the past, beekeepers used to place their hives near the north Euboean woodlands and collect oak honey or chestnut honey for sale. Now, they collect flower honey produced by bees that roam freely in areas no longer covered by forests. Where the advancing fire had been halted by a river, we discovered larger and more vibrant wild gladioli reveling in the sunlight, unimpeded by the presence of trees on the opposite bank.
The Euboean oak is characterized by its glossy, serrated leaves with white undersides. Interestingly, these leaves only extend to a height of about 5 feet, and genetically, this oak is believed to be a variation of Quercus trojana, known as the Trojan oak. Taxonomists and eco-botanists may have their explanations for the oak’s distribution, but I have my own fanciful theory inspired by Homer’s “Iliad”. In this ancient epic, a prominent oak tree stands near the city of Troy, where gods and goddesses gather to discuss their allegiances to the city. While Homer provides no additional details, a distinct type of oak tree, known as the Trojan oak, has long been recognized in the modern-day Troad. As a tribute to my recently completed book, “Homer and His Iliad,” I have planted Quercus trojana in our Oxford college garden. This oak is hardy in Britain and has survived the winter unharmed. It remains green despite the dry weeks in May and June. In the “Iliad,” the first Greek hero to die in battle is Elephenor, the leader of the Euboean contingent. Regardless of what science may establish, I enjoy my personal myth that fellow Euboeans returned with acorns from the oak near Troy and planted them on their island in his memory. Some of these acorns eventually gave rise to the unique Euboean variation.
Homer also draws parallels between battles and forest fires in the “Iliad” but never ascribes these fires to gods, nor does he claim that they start when branches rub against each other, a fallacy popularized by the austere historian Thucydides in the 5th century BC. To better understand this connection, I turned to the late Oliver Rackham, an expert in treescapes and their history. In his esteemed book “The Nature of Mediterranean Europe: An Ecological History” co-authored with AT Grove, Rackham provides a crucial account of forest fires and their consequences. Taking a long-term perspective, he challenges the notion of an increasing occurrence of forest fires, at least up until 2001. However, current patterns may have prompted him to revise his views. He also downplays the link between forest fires and discarded cigarettes, stating that even in Greece in the early 1980s, when smoking was commonplace, less than 3% of the landscape burned each year due to this cause. In a less idiosyncratic fashion, Rackham discovers a “pine-and-fire cycle” that still holds true. Unlike firs, pine trees release seeds from their cones through the wind, which fans the flames. About three years after a fire, seedlings begin to emerge from the burned ground. Similarly, young pines are now sporadically appearing on Euboea. In about 30 years, most of the pine forests in north Euboea should have regrown. Nevertheless, a more proactive measure would involve planting circles of walnut trees around villages in areas prone to future fires.
In terms of potential flash floods, Rackham controversially argues that they will not occur, drawing on his experiences in Crete. He asserts that the roots and stumps of burned trees must be left in the ground to stabilize it. This advice resonated with me when I encountered a new top-down initiative in the river valley near the village of Asminio. Despite the fire failing to spread across the banks of the Euboean river, a significant concrete dam has been built there to prevent potential floods caused by rising water levels. However, locals familiar with the valley believe that the dam will be inadequate to halt a major flood. Rackham’s argument suggests that leaving the burnt trees in place on the slopes would prevent such floods from occurring in the first place.
In light of these insights gained from Rackham’s expertise and my own observations on the ground, I must clarify that I am not claiming that catastrophic fires have a wholly positive aftermath. Instead, I propose that in Greece, as in other places, the effects of burning should be evaluated from a botanical standpoint, taking into account the complex balance sheet of nature. Patience, and one day you too may witness the rejuvenation of Euboean pine woods, just as they remain etched in my memories.
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