I love me a copper beech. Look at them.
I suppose the Sherlock Holmes story helps, it was my favourite as a kid, and it always nudges into my consciousness when I see one. The tree on my patch is old, maybe even as old as that (1892). It hums with life. Insects love the leaves, birds love the insects. It was shimmering with it.
I don’t know who V & L were (certainly not Violet and Lestrade), and I don’t hold with cutting scars into beautiful things; maybe they’re feeding worms or soil and turning something fundamental into something useful.
It is a commotion of colour and shade. It supports and shelters. Sit under one, look up, lean against it. No need for initials, though.