This is the sad view from the kitchen this morning. It's been raining steadily and hard for at least 24 hours, there was quite a wind last night - and this morning, the crab apple was down. Twice before, when it was young, it was blown over by the wind, even though it's in quite a sheltered part of the garden. Then it was younger, and we pulled it back up. This time, it's too heavy to move, although the four of us tried. This spring it was particularly beautiful, its lovely single white blossom scenting the air a surprising distance. I shall miss it, probably more than any other tree in the garden.
My mother-in-law planted the crab 25 years ago, to provide shade for the garden table. We've eaten hundreds of meals under its branches, drunk numerous cups of coffee, glasses of wine. I once tried to grow a Mme Alfred Carriere rose up it, but it got cut by the mower and didn't thrive. The first photograph I ever had of Lucius shows him standing in front of it in his socks, ice bucket in hand. I feel pretty sentimental about that tree.
Now, Lucius, who dug the hole and put the tree in it, who pulled it up when it blew down, is cutting it up with a chainsaw and Alfred is taking away all the pieces. I hope that a little log of it can be saved to turn a little piece of treen to use as a paperweight.
So, no crab apple jelly this year. Time for change. And we'll have the pleasure of choosing another tree to shade our summers.
A grave matter - Reading Roger Lancelyn Green's Tellers of Tales* a few months ago piqued a latent interest in Andrew Lang, and discovering that he was buried in the ground...
1 day ago