Woke today to a wonderful spring morning - warm (I think!) and very sunny. Tubs are looking good, tho'I don't think that the daffs I ordered were really from the miniature bulb section, but they are beautiful, all the same.
The birds are singing, fit to bust, but the bigger old hands appear somewhat discombobulated by the lowering of their branches in the pear tree.
The eponymous trees we have, governed by preservation orders, received their not so regular cull yesterday. Always an eye-watering bill, but undoubtedly safer than any potential claim from pedestrians, cars or lorries should bits fall on them.
This time we included the pear tree in the garden, its topmost branches a hangout for the big chaps on the lookout for action. Now they will have to set their sights a little lower ...
When we first moved in, decades ago, a chap who did work for us commented on the fact that, as a child, he used to scrump the fruit so I am thinking it must be at least 100 years old. Only a slight set back when part of it was set alight when our late neighbour lit a bonfire underneath its hanging boughs.
One moment of potential embarrassment when the tree fellas had moved to the second tree, whose majestic branches and irksome foliage mark the changing of the seasons from upper window in the cloakroom.
Normally, an unhindered and secluded view. But not when a strapping chap swings past on ropes as you are quietly performing.
Ah, so that's what a flying fox is!
Had to look it up!
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