CALL me prescient but I wrote a novel last year with the working title Sheep v Trees. Now, I can see why this might not have had publishers salivating. And if it ever reaches print, those to whom it is most relevant will not have time to read it, let alone queue at Waterstones hoping to have their copy signed.

The story of a borders hill farmer, it revolved around the impending ruin of a man whose sheep farm was running into the red. He had no option – or so he was advised – but to turn the land over to trees.

In the course of conversations with farmers and foresters, this was, I learned, a very hot topic. Unfortunately for the novel’s commercial prospects, folk in these lines of work barely have time to read the instructions on a microwave dinner, let alone settle down with a book for an hour before bed.

These past few weeks, the conflict between sheep and trees has become fiercer, as the prospect of large areas of woodland replacing pasture is threatening to cause a stramash in the borders. Much of the land in these parts is owned by the Duke of Buccleuch, one of Scotland’s largest landowners. Lately, he has decided to end tenancy agreements on more than 20 farms in the region, and in the case of three, plans to turn them partly over to trees when the tenancy agreement ends. While 11 tenants are being offered the chance to buy their farms outright, some worry they will be valued according to what the land would make if forested rather than farmed, as at present. Meanwhile, one tenant, Walter Barrie, from Yarrow, says his rent will rise by 70%. He is also being obliged to give up 30% of prime grazing hill ground to allow the Buccleuch estate to plant trees, thereby making it impossible to turn a profit from his flock.

Trouble is simmering, of that there’s no doubt. Rightly or wrongly, the farming community believes these changes are harbingers of more intensive afforestation to come. Nobody sensible can object to diversification, when done sensitively, but the thought that the animals which give the borders their character are in danger of being shoved off the land, and their owners with them, strikes at the heart of this region.

The borders are built on wool, lamb and beef. Every high street is a proud reminder of what is produced locally, butchers vying for the juiciest display of steak, cutlets and mince, while its cashmere and lambswool are the envy of the world.

Especially alarming are the echoes of the clearances. Once it was people being moved out for sheep. Now it is sheep and cattle being swept aside for trees. When so powerful a landowner decides to change the way things are done, one can’t help being reminded of the disregard for the human cost that ravaged great swathes of the Highlands, and parts of the Lowlands too. As the reviled Duke of Sutherland and his ilk learned, an economic decision that looks reasonable on paper can nevertheless have a catastrophic human cost.

Yet there are strong and persuasive reasons for considering trees a better use of land, in certain situations, than livestock. The most compelling argument right now is the financial incentive. In order to meet its climate change targets, the government is paying handsomely for the planting of trees, the front line in carbon capture. This means forestry can make up to eight times more than farming. Added to which, the uses of wood are endless, and the employment this industry offers – eventually – is considerable. That said, forestry, and the tourism that comes with it, creates a very different, and far less rooted society than that of farmers and their workers.

While military ranks of sitka spruces can blight a landscape, mixed woodland enhances it. Although my preference is for the seemingly empty uplands, I can see the advantages of trees for wildlife and ecology. Meanwhile, purists who hark back to the days when the borders were heavily treed have ancient precedent on their side. But in landscape and farming, evolution, whether natural or man-made, counts for much more than historical reconstruction. You cannot turn the clock back unless in doing so real progress, benefitting the whole community, is being made.

And there lies the rub. Trees may offer a level of economic security never known with livestock, and a lifestyle far less arduous than a farmer’s gruelling schedule. For those who rear sheep and cattle or plough the fields, however, the prospect of losing their all-consuming way of life – often one passed down the generations – is more than painful. It is heartbreaking.

My novel might have fared better if I’d called it The Cheviot, the Stag and the Tall Tall Pine. As it is, my farmer-turned-forester eventually finds new meaning in this kind of work. That, though, is the stuff of fiction. Borderers anxious about what the future holds don’t want stories. They want, and deserve, assurances that the choice will be theirs.