The Trees

There is unrest in the forest.  There is trouble with the trees.

If by "forest" you mean" "our back garden", and by "the trees" you mean "the giant leylandii in our neighbours' garden."

When we bought our house, all those* years ago, we were delighted by the fact that there was a lovely view over the hedge at the end of our garden, across the neighbour's meadow to the river and hills beyond.  It was really very pretty, and when you stood in the bathroom in the mornings and looked out of the window at it, it was a sight to gladden the heart.

When the dairy farm down the road still had their herd of Jersey cows, we could see them grazing on the hills, which was very scenic.  There are often rabbits and squirrels in the meadow, skipping about gaily.  Egrets and herons live on the river, flying in and out in that strange ungainly way, looking like something out of a film set on a distant planet.   One with large predatory bird-like aliens.

Our hedge was flanked on the other side by a cherry tree, and a small cluster of leylandii trees, both of which were in the neighbours' garden.  The cherry tree in particular was very pretty, with blossom in the spring, and plenty of birds coming to visit when the fruit started appearing.

Time passed.

A couple of years after we moved in, the neighbours had a go at the leylandii, trimming them down a bit, taking a big lump off the top.  It was a huge job, I seem to remember they had to get blokes with scaffolding in.  This pruning encouraged it to grow. It grew, and it grew and it GREW.

More time passed.

Last summer we noticed that the bottom end of our garden was becoming a bit dank. Mossy and gloomy.  Also, peculiarly dry.  We realised that the leylandii was both shading the garden from the sun, and shielding it from  the rain. Which was a bit of a bugger, as the fruit bed and the vegetable bed are both at that end of the garden.

Over the winter, that tree seemed to loom ever larger, literally and figuratively.

Possibly because I was spending far more time at home in the hours of daylight, it became a bit of an obsession to me.  Every time I went into the garden to peg out washing, or water the veg, or mooch about admiring the wild flower garden**, I'd see it, looming darkly over the hedge.  I took to standing directly under it and seeing just how much it was overhanging our garden, muttering and grumbling.

Me, not the tree.

All the tree does is grow, grow ever taller, providing a house for the ever-increasing population of idiot Wiltshire pigeons.  It has all but swallowed up the cherry tree, one branch of which is poking out desperately, like the arm of a drowning man waving from the ocean.

The view now consists of this:

Bear in mind that the hedge is about 6 feet tall (yes, it needs cutting, we are waiting for all the birds to finish nesting) which gives some perspective on the height of the tree.

Something had to be done.

After much discussion between Mr WithaY and I, and also with the neighbours on the other side, who hate and loathe the tree with a passion, it was decided that I should write a little note telling the tree-owners that their tree was a nuisance.

That took a fair bit of thought.  It was difficult to put down just how much of a nuisance and encroachment it had become without sounding like a nimby whining busybody, but I think I nailed it.  The note was dropped round to the neighbour, and we waited with bated breath for a reaction. I was preparing all sorts of worst-case scenarios where the local planning office would be involved, and possibly the environmental health authority.  And the Army.  And Godzilla.

As it happened, within 24 hours we had a visit from said tree-owning neighbour.  She looked at it from our garden and was horrified at how big it was, and how much light it blocked.   We discussed possible solutions, and the upshot was that I got a tree surgeon to come round and give us some price quotes on pruning it, or cutting it right down.

Another little note has been written to next door telling them that the tree surgeon's opinion is that the whole thing should come down due to its size and position.  Mr WithaY and I have offered to pay for it to be removed, as we know that things are a bit difficult for the neighbours at the moment.  All we need is their go-ahead, and hopefully by the end of the summer we will have our view, and the sunshine, back.

In other news:  We are getting the garage converted, and the bloke is coming on Thursday to conduct the survey.  The work is due to start at the end of the month.  Exciting.

And in other, other news, I had a job interview last week.  Waaaay back last summer I applied for a job, a post I felt that I was pretty well fitted for, and was rather disappointed not even to get called for interview.  I put it in the "Ah well" file in my head, and moved on.  Last week, there was an email from the people who I had sent my application to.  Was I still available for work, and if so, would I like to come and have a chat with them?

Oh yes indeedy.  So I went in, had a long chat, and am currently waiting to hear back from them about the possibility of a full-time (but temporary) job which would then hopefully lead to a part-time, permanent job. Which would be perfect.

I'll let you know.








*Ten and a half

**Rampant weedy patch in the corner of the garden

Hedging my bets

Was in the pub last night having a chat about gardening with some of our lovely neighbours.

The WithaY estate* is surrounded on one and a bit sides by a large leylandii(sp?) hedge, and I loathe it. With a deep and abiding passion. It's tall, thick, dark and depressing.

Good in that we don't get gawped at by passers-by and people using the petrol station, but bad in that nothing else grows near it except ivy and moss, and it looks gloomy.

My dream scenario would involve a runaway lorry demolishing it (leaving everyone unhurt), the hedge totally flattened beyond redemption, and Mr WithaY and I getting it replaced with a beautiful stone wall and hawthorn hedge at somebody else's expense.

Anyhoo.

We discussed various hedging and walling solutions**. Some of our neighbours are thinking about having one of their hedges taken out, and it's a surprisingly complicated thing to do. Unless you don't mind having your garden gradually collapse into the road and wash away in the rain, of course.

I said I would like to replace our huge front hedge, and our wise foresting neighbour asked what kind of thing I would put in its place. I said "Oh, maybe hawthorn." He nodded, and asked me how old I am. I told him, 42, why? He shook his head sadly and said "You don't have time for hawthorn."

Gah.

Other news: Local paper headline which made me snort tea out of my nose: "Wind Makes Minor Impact".



*front garden

**bet you wish you drank in our pub, eh?

Cold

Bloody hell it's cold. I know it's September and all, but come on. I mean, really.

Was snuggled up to at the team meeting yesterday. "For warmth" apparently. Hmm.

It's still about 4 weeks too early for the heating to get switched on at home but I might light the fire* tonight, and see if the chimney still works ok.

Thinking about mice made me think about our old house a lot yesterday, probably the first time in almost 6 years that I've given it much thought. Odd.

But, what I was reminded of was the "Accidental Cat Theft" story. Are you sitting comfortably?

One day I noticed a strange cat in our front garden. It was sat very still, looking as if it was in some discomfort. I went out and stroked it a bit, and felt that it was very skinny, so I took it out a little dish of milk.

I left it in peace and went back inside. Later on, I looked out and the cat had moved slightly so it was still sitting in the sun, but was now sitting with its tail in the dish of milk. Now I don't know a lot about cats, but I didn't think it was very well to be doing that.

Mr WithaY came out to have a look and agreed with my assessment that the cat was not right. His view was that we should leave it alone and it would wander home when it was ready.

I watched the cat for a while longer and eventually decided that we had to take it to the vet as it was obviously poorly. Mr WithaY agreed** so I wrapped the skinny mog in an old towel, we put it in the laundry basket and drove to the vet's.

The vet had a look and said "Oh dear. This cat is very old indeed, and is probably just waiting to die."

I was quite sad to hear this as I had already decided that if it survived I would keep it. The vet said she'd keep in in overnight, give it a few vitamin jabs and so on, and clean all the fleas and things off it, and if it made it through the night, she'd call me.

Mr WithaY then flew to Scotland for a week for work, and I went about my lawful business. When I got home from work the next night, one of the neighbours, the matriarch of the huge extended family who lived in the street (and several other surrounding streets) was stood in her front garden, looking troubled.

"Have you seen moi cat?" she demanded as soon as I got out of my car. (Uh-oh)

"Um, maybe. What does it look like?"

Visions of dozens of her scary relatives wielding pickaxe handles filled my brain momentarily.

"She's little. And grey. Moi cat sleeps on moi bed every noight. She din't come home last noight! Oi'm worried sick!" By now I had a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Um. I think I stole your cat. It's at the vet's. I'll call them. I'm really sorry, I thought it was a stray." Because it was skinny and covered in FLEAS you terrifying old crone.

I rang the vet. Thank fuck, the cat didn't die in the night. I told the vet I'd be sending the rightful owner over to pick it up as soon as possible, and went out to tell my neighbour the good news. That her cat wasn't dead, I mean. Not that I'd stolen it. She knew that already.

Scary neighbour duly retrieved her cat, but then came round waving the vet's bill at me. "Oi've got this huge bill now! Oi'm an old age pensioner you know!"

I took it off her and exercised all my considerable natural charm to assure her I'd pay the vet's bill (if you tell your terrifying family not to come and burn my house down, ta). Sent the cheque to the vet, and then had an outraged phone call from them.

"I can't believe she's making you pay this bill! Her cat was neglected! I've got a good mind to call the RSPCA! etc etc etc".

I begged the vet not to do that (visions of a wicker man being built on my front lawn had started forming in my mind's eye by now) and eventually the vet hung up, very grumpy.

An hour later there was a knock on the front door. I opened it gingerly, expecting pitchforks and blazing torches, but there were several of the less scary relatives with a huge bunch of flowers for me "for saving our Nan's cat". Aaah.

And two days later I got my cheque back from the vet's with a lovely note saying they were going to pay it themselves as they felt it was unfair to take my money. Aaah.

However, the whole experience left me scarred.

House policy now is that if we ever see an animal sitting in the garden for more than 10 minutes we're to hit it with a shovel and lob it over the fence.


*not a euphamism. We have a fire in the sitting room. In case you were wondering.

**reluctantly, mind. Not a cat person.