Pierre is our tree surgeon. He is now 65 but still clambers up ladders and balances his short, round and increasingly hirsute figure in the cradle of the tree. Unlike modern tree surgeons he does not approve of safety contraptions of any kind: the harness is eschewed and any form of rope or attachment distained. Apparently they inhibit his manoeuvrability and the only time he came close to a serious accident, he claims, is when a harness got in his way. Since he is bringing up his thirteen year-old son single-handedly he does not take his safety lightly but relies on his own, seemingly unimpaired, sense of balance and total fearlessness. Unfortunately his hearing has not proved quite so robust and the constant proximity of the high pitched chainsaw has rendered him deaf in his right ear.
The saw in question is very small and very light and very lethal. Aloft amongst the branches he waves it like a magic wand in the direction of the surplus boughs, utters something unintelligible in Occitan and they all fall off.
Impressed by this display of dexterity, le Comte once thought he would like to have a go. Unfortunately his chainsaw is more cumbersome and he wasn’t quite brave enough (understandably) to perch, baboon-like, 30 feet above the ground. So instead he stood underneath, gazed meaningfully upwards, brandished the chainsaw and muttered a little phrase in Scouse.
The effect was much less precise: the entire tree crashed down, slicing through a power line and depriving the entire Quartier of electricity.
Startled by the sudden flash, Dora the goat, who was penned up nearby, instantly went into premature labour and produced Minnie the kid. This temporarily took our minds off the live cable lying on the ground, especially as we had no notion that she was pregnant.
The emergency electricity team were, it must be said, excellent. They arrived almost immediately and naturally asked how it happened. Le Comte and I had hastily concocted a story about a friend who claimed to be a dab hand with a chainsaw but had unfortunately had to leave to catch a plane.
‘Well,’ said the man from EDF, pausing in the middle of his form-filling, ‘if I was you I should tell the insurance company the wind blew the tree over.’
Ha. How comes we didn’t think of that one then?
Following all the chopping and felling, an equal, if not greater, amount of burning is necessary. Le Comte and I are old hands. Pierre long ago gave lessons on how to burn green wood in large quantities. None of this building a bonfire Guy Fawkes style all criss-crossed and pyramidal. Oh no. Instead, get a good fire going with some dry wood and lay all the branches in one direction across it so they are packed fairly tight. The middle of the fire will then burn very hot creating a hole like a monk’s tonsure. A rake is then required to deftly shift all the outer branches on to the volcanic cinders in the middle. Do this several times a day for several weeks and you will have cleared your garden of felled lime branches.
Trees, we have discovered, that look relatively compact from down below, invariably turn out to be covered in huge quantities of branches and twigs. These, when distributed across your guest terrace, create a scene of devastation that the Happy Holidaymakers would be unlikely to appreciate – however genuinely rural it might be. (Please note: it is important to offer the HHs only carefully selected and managed rural scenes including animals that don’t mate in public.)
In order to have a bonfire in this part of France a ‘Permis de Bruler’ is required, obtainable from the Mairie and renewable every three months. Bonfires are strictly interdit between June and September. In theory, you are also supposed to phone the fire brigade beforehand to ask permission to have the bonfire, but they always react with such puzzlement that I have abandoned this practice.
Anticipating Pierre's visit last week I duly presented myself at the Mairie to obtain my signed and stamped piece of paper. Le Comte and I are well known there. As the only English people in the commune we have presented the locals with several administrative conundrums over the years. When we first arrived we even required a Carte de Séjour, a residency permit which could be rescinded after a year if we had failed to find jobs. As we hadn’t actually looked for jobs it was unsurprising we hadn’t found any, particularly in this unemployment black spot. Fortunately for all concerned, the law on the status of EU members changed just before they were obliged to make a decision on whether or not to throw us out. In fact we were renovating the gites ready to let and were living off capital rather than the French state, anyway.
So I have spent the day toiling over hot bonfires, which, as I explained to le Comte, is why Princess 1 was cooking the risotto and there was no cake for him to eat. A long soak in the bath with a lavender teabag was subsequently necessary and I am now beginning to feel somewhat restored. A day doing paperwork beckons tomorrow methinks.
The saw in question is very small and very light and very lethal. Aloft amongst the branches he waves it like a magic wand in the direction of the surplus boughs, utters something unintelligible in Occitan and they all fall off.
Impressed by this display of dexterity, le Comte once thought he would like to have a go. Unfortunately his chainsaw is more cumbersome and he wasn’t quite brave enough (understandably) to perch, baboon-like, 30 feet above the ground. So instead he stood underneath, gazed meaningfully upwards, brandished the chainsaw and muttered a little phrase in Scouse.
The effect was much less precise: the entire tree crashed down, slicing through a power line and depriving the entire Quartier of electricity.
Startled by the sudden flash, Dora the goat, who was penned up nearby, instantly went into premature labour and produced Minnie the kid. This temporarily took our minds off the live cable lying on the ground, especially as we had no notion that she was pregnant.
The emergency electricity team were, it must be said, excellent. They arrived almost immediately and naturally asked how it happened. Le Comte and I had hastily concocted a story about a friend who claimed to be a dab hand with a chainsaw but had unfortunately had to leave to catch a plane.
‘Well,’ said the man from EDF, pausing in the middle of his form-filling, ‘if I was you I should tell the insurance company the wind blew the tree over.’
Ha. How comes we didn’t think of that one then?
Following all the chopping and felling, an equal, if not greater, amount of burning is necessary. Le Comte and I are old hands. Pierre long ago gave lessons on how to burn green wood in large quantities. None of this building a bonfire Guy Fawkes style all criss-crossed and pyramidal. Oh no. Instead, get a good fire going with some dry wood and lay all the branches in one direction across it so they are packed fairly tight. The middle of the fire will then burn very hot creating a hole like a monk’s tonsure. A rake is then required to deftly shift all the outer branches on to the volcanic cinders in the middle. Do this several times a day for several weeks and you will have cleared your garden of felled lime branches.
Trees, we have discovered, that look relatively compact from down below, invariably turn out to be covered in huge quantities of branches and twigs. These, when distributed across your guest terrace, create a scene of devastation that the Happy Holidaymakers would be unlikely to appreciate – however genuinely rural it might be. (Please note: it is important to offer the HHs only carefully selected and managed rural scenes including animals that don’t mate in public.)
In order to have a bonfire in this part of France a ‘Permis de Bruler’ is required, obtainable from the Mairie and renewable every three months. Bonfires are strictly interdit between June and September. In theory, you are also supposed to phone the fire brigade beforehand to ask permission to have the bonfire, but they always react with such puzzlement that I have abandoned this practice.
Anticipating Pierre's visit last week I duly presented myself at the Mairie to obtain my signed and stamped piece of paper. Le Comte and I are well known there. As the only English people in the commune we have presented the locals with several administrative conundrums over the years. When we first arrived we even required a Carte de Séjour, a residency permit which could be rescinded after a year if we had failed to find jobs. As we hadn’t actually looked for jobs it was unsurprising we hadn’t found any, particularly in this unemployment black spot. Fortunately for all concerned, the law on the status of EU members changed just before they were obliged to make a decision on whether or not to throw us out. In fact we were renovating the gites ready to let and were living off capital rather than the French state, anyway.
So I have spent the day toiling over hot bonfires, which, as I explained to le Comte, is why Princess 1 was cooking the risotto and there was no cake for him to eat. A long soak in the bath with a lavender teabag was subsequently necessary and I am now beginning to feel somewhat restored. A day doing paperwork beckons tomorrow methinks.
A welcome bit of light relief as I wade through marking what seems like an endless pile of tests. Although my neighbour is not a tree surgeon, he's often to be found halfway up the trees in his garden, picking olives, pruning bits and bobs. He's 86!
ReplyDeleteAnyway a most enjoyable account.
Keep up the good work