Observer: Everyone professes a love of trees. I cannot find anybody who’ll admit to hating them, or the lesser charge of finding their gnarled trunks, light-blocking canopies or autumnal tendency to drop leaves everywhere even vaguely irksome. Ostensibly, then, we’re a nation of tree fanciers and huggers who relish being custodians of a rich woodland legacy. No surprise that the oak tree is a potent symbol of Englishness, its proud crown even providing cover for the occasional monarch on the run. The …