MY young son has developed a fascination for trees. The bigger the tree, the greater the fascination.

Just three, he dashes towards every big tree. He is so excited that before he gets there, he trips over the roots and lands nose down in the mud. Undeterred, he hauls himself up and starts seductively stroking the tree's rough bark with his filthy fingers.

He tosses his head back - ignoring the blinding rain pouring into his eyes - and looks up the trunk. Back and back goes his head until he can see the very top of the big tree. Then he over-balances and topples into the mud.

This week we've been around Middlesbrough Football Club's training ground at Hurworth Place. The club has beautifully laid out a walk along the banks of the tea-brown Tees and up through the parkland. It is partly on this parkland that it plans to build the country's longest golf course.

This parkland was laid out shortly after 1863 by banker Alfred Backhouse, whose Rockliffe Hall will be converted into the clubhouse. Alfred was "an ardent horticulturist and an enthusiastic admirer of nature". His obituary of 1888 said: "His residence is famous for its woodland beauties and the cunning of its arrangement".

A sylvan carriage drive swept through the parkland - when the corn is full grown you can follow the graceful sweep in its growing patterns - down to a private bridge over the Tees.

My little fellow dashed over to inspect one of Backhouse's specimen trees. As I implored him to move on so we could get out of the rain, the tree swiped me with its long, slender mid-green leaves. He dashed on to the next specimen. It, too, was an oak - but very different. Its leaves were big, bulbous and dark green.

We moved on and ended up fondling a third oak, a wholly different one as its leaves were jagged and brown and lying on the floor. I was now soaked through, but also overawed by oaks. I started running around the parkland in the rain collecting as different leaves and acorns, while the little chap cannoodled with a penduncular (as I later learned it to be).

The Greeks, Romans and Druids - as well as my little fellow - all venerated oaks. The wood is strong but elastic; the bark can be used for tanning leather and has antiseptic properties; babies sleep in oak cribs to ward off goblins. Oaks are the trees of the gods.

There are 450 species of oak, of which only two are genuine English: the penduncular, whose acorns are on long stalks, and the sessile whose acorns are stalkless.

We found plenty of these ship-building oaks. We also found lots of Turkey oaks, which were imported from Asia in the 19th century. These were known as "wainscot oaks" because their poor timber was only used for interior panelling.

There was a red oak which Backhouse must have imported from North America and planted for its autumn column, and what appeared to be a rare Hungarian oak whose acorns can be ground into coffee.

Best of all were the Lucombe oaks, with their slender leaves and fluffy, mossy acorn cupules. These are named after the 18th century Exeter nurseryman, Mr Lucombe, who so liked their timber that he kept planks of it beneath his bed ready to make his coffin.

He died aged 102.

I wonder whether, 140 years ago, Alfred Backhouse stood in the pouring rain close to the tea-brown Tees and ran his filthy fingers over the bark of the rare Lucombe sapling he had just planted.

Published: 29/10/2005