Showing posts with label birds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birds. Show all posts
15 August 2011
More arboricide
My brother had to fell the cypress that was fouling the gutter of the gite and threatening to dislodge tiles from the roof. It rattled and scraped alarmingly in the least wind. No one remembers why it was growing so close in the first place. But we were all shocked and ashamed to discover a hoopoe's nest in the felled tree.
19 January 2011
Arboricide
I've been putting it off.
They are tall, strong trees, probably native to the west coast of North America. I don't know the species, but one is what we call The Blue Pine, a particularly handsome and vigorous plant that has doubled its height in the twelve years we've been here, to about 30 metres. And it's about ten metres from the house. If it were to fall in various other directions it would flatten one of three neighbouring houses. And it might fall, because our topsoil is about nine inches, and below that is chalk.
The other conifers are a different sort with softer needles, nearly as tall but much nearer to the house. Their tops foul the telephone wires and the roots foul the drains. One blocks the light to J's study. If they toppled, they would flatten our house or next door. We used to have a goldcrest nesting in one of them, but I haven't seen it for about ten years. We have quite a large garden, so it is a mystery why a previous owner put these tall trees so close to the house, and to next door properties. It must be that they simply had no idea how big they would grow. And neither do we. We have watched as they soar. And we love them.
I have been putting it off. We keep hearing warnings that extreme weather will be more frequent. High winds kept us awake in our last house, and in October 1987 a neighbouring ash tree crashed into the garden, smashing a window. That has probably made me more risk-averse, and I'm rather ashamed of that. I'm even more exercised by the idea that one of these trees might kill someone because I'd failed to do something about it. We live in a conservation area, where you have to get permission to prune anything thicker than your finger. And even the Council thinks the trees ought to come down.
When the tree surgeons rang today because the weather forecast was good for tomorrow, I didn't say yes straight away. I dithered and maundered for an hour before giving the go-ahead.
I feel like a criminal. I can already see our impoverished skyline and the bare ground. We have used these tree surgeons several times before, so know they will leave no mess. That's worse, somehow, like editing it out.
We will plant some new trees. What, though?
They are tall, strong trees, probably native to the west coast of North America. I don't know the species, but one is what we call The Blue Pine, a particularly handsome and vigorous plant that has doubled its height in the twelve years we've been here, to about 30 metres. And it's about ten metres from the house. If it were to fall in various other directions it would flatten one of three neighbouring houses. And it might fall, because our topsoil is about nine inches, and below that is chalk.
The other conifers are a different sort with softer needles, nearly as tall but much nearer to the house. Their tops foul the telephone wires and the roots foul the drains. One blocks the light to J's study. If they toppled, they would flatten our house or next door. We used to have a goldcrest nesting in one of them, but I haven't seen it for about ten years. We have quite a large garden, so it is a mystery why a previous owner put these tall trees so close to the house, and to next door properties. It must be that they simply had no idea how big they would grow. And neither do we. We have watched as they soar. And we love them.
I have been putting it off. We keep hearing warnings that extreme weather will be more frequent. High winds kept us awake in our last house, and in October 1987 a neighbouring ash tree crashed into the garden, smashing a window. That has probably made me more risk-averse, and I'm rather ashamed of that. I'm even more exercised by the idea that one of these trees might kill someone because I'd failed to do something about it. We live in a conservation area, where you have to get permission to prune anything thicker than your finger. And even the Council thinks the trees ought to come down.
When the tree surgeons rang today because the weather forecast was good for tomorrow, I didn't say yes straight away. I dithered and maundered for an hour before giving the go-ahead.
I feel like a criminal. I can already see our impoverished skyline and the bare ground. We have used these tree surgeons several times before, so know they will leave no mess. That's worse, somehow, like editing it out.
We will plant some new trees. What, though?
18 July 2010
Oriole
Down in the woods he sings: oriole, oriole. It's haunting, alluring, maddening. I've seen pictures of the bird but never the actual thing. I wonder if he is Edward Thomas's Unknown Bird. Thomas was a keen naturalist, and if the poem was prompted by a real bird (and why not? All the proof is-- I told men/ What I had heard) it's inconceivable it could have been any regular visitor to the UK, at least in his part of it, at his time. I write this from deepest France, where the oriole is regular but not exactly common. The oriole has been a rare East Anglian visitor for best part of a hundred years. It's not a bird of Thomas country.
A lot depends on how you hear "La-la-la". Whenever I have heard anyone read this poem they place equal weight on all three syllables. But give it a bit of song, la-la-la, and it starts to become possible.
The Unknown Bird
Three lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be heard
If others sang; but others never sang
In the great beech-wood all that May and June.
No one saw him: I alone could hear him
Though many listened. Was it but four years
Ago? or five? He never came again.
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,
Nor could I ever make another hear.
La-la-la! he called, seeming far-off--
As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,
As if the bird or I were in a dream.
Yet that he travelled through the trees and sometimes
Neared me, was plain, though somehow distant still
He sounded. All the proof is--I told men
What I had heard.
I never knew a voice,
Man, beast, or bird, better than this. I told
The naturalists; but neither had they heard
Anything like the notes that did so haunt me,
I had them clear by heart and have them still.
Four years, or five, have made no difference. Then
As now that La-la-la! was bodiless sweet:
Sad more than joyful it was, if I must say
That it was one or other, but if sad
'Twas sad only with joy too, too far off
For me to taste it. But I cannot tell
If truly never anything but fair
The days were when he sang, as now they seem.
This surely I know, that I who listened then,
Happy sometimes, sometimes suffering
A heavy body and a heavy heart,
Now straightway, if I think of it, become
Light as that bird wandering beyond my shore.
A lot depends on how you hear "La-la-la". Whenever I have heard anyone read this poem they place equal weight on all three syllables. But give it a bit of song, la-la-la, and it starts to become possible.
The Unknown Bird
Three lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be heard
If others sang; but others never sang
In the great beech-wood all that May and June.
No one saw him: I alone could hear him
Though many listened. Was it but four years
Ago? or five? He never came again.
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,
Nor could I ever make another hear.
La-la-la! he called, seeming far-off--
As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,
As if the bird or I were in a dream.
Yet that he travelled through the trees and sometimes
Neared me, was plain, though somehow distant still
He sounded. All the proof is--I told men
What I had heard.
I never knew a voice,
Man, beast, or bird, better than this. I told
The naturalists; but neither had they heard
Anything like the notes that did so haunt me,
I had them clear by heart and have them still.
Four years, or five, have made no difference. Then
As now that La-la-la! was bodiless sweet:
Sad more than joyful it was, if I must say
That it was one or other, but if sad
'Twas sad only with joy too, too far off
For me to taste it. But I cannot tell
If truly never anything but fair
The days were when he sang, as now they seem.
This surely I know, that I who listened then,
Happy sometimes, sometimes suffering
A heavy body and a heavy heart,
Now straightway, if I think of it, become
Light as that bird wandering beyond my shore.
15 November 2009
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