Roots

Today

This week the survey was carried out on Spencer House. I talked to the surveyor about the trees and shrubs in the garden. "Well, it's a conservation area", he said "so you'll need permission to do any pruning." The garden was once part of the estate of Oakhill Manor and has some very majestic and mature trees.

I still have to learn what they all are and how to deal with them. And I'm sure that that will involve tree surgeons and the like, of which the local council publishes a list.

There isn't a single plant in my little garden (always excepting the ever-encroaching brambles) that I haven't planted myself during the past twenty-five years - the lovely Elaeagnus that grows as fast as the brambles but gives beautiful green and gold foliage all year round, the fragrant Viburnum and my gorgeous Dublin Bay rose.

And, of course, the apple tree.

In My Day

At the tail end of 1986 we moved into our new home. Once we'd got the central heating more or less sorted, found a way of fitting Becky and her toys into her tiny bedroom and finally got the cooker wedged into place, it was time to explore the rest of our property.

The property boasted an integral garage,  a joy previously untasted. It had an ancient up-and-over door which was unlocked, the key probably having been missing for years. We peered into the depths. There was some of our stuff in there, dumped by the removal firm and that general air of dust and spiders that pervades most outbuildings.

Near the front was something unexpected. Sitting lopsidedly in a Safeway's carrier bag was a diminutive apple tree. The label announced that it was a Worcester and was self-germinating. Nothing, however, announced how it had got there. Still there it was and I carefully planted it at the top of the garden, much to the delight of my neighbour who also had a Worcester apple tree.

Later the whole story emerged. The new house was only a matter of about three miles from my brother David's home. Thinking to welcome us festively they turned up, mob-handed, on December 23rd, our moving-in day. They had all the musical instruments they could muster and the apple tree. Lustily they sang and played carols outside our front door. We, however, were at the time feasting on cauliflower cheese at Cousin's restaurant in Shepton (see 28 March 2012 entry). Eventually they became aware of the deafening silence that surrounded them. They packed up their instruments and carol books and tiptoed away, leaving the apple tree in the garage.

That first year the tree produced four apples, which I made into a tarte tatin to share with my loving brother's family.

Unfortunately, I fear that uprooting the tree to take it to Oakhill will just kill it, so it will have to stay as a symbol of welcome and hope to the future inhabitants of no 7.