THOUGHTS ON A ‘DEAD’ TREE

Spring has most definitely sprung here in Lesser Blogfordshire, the birdies are a-twittering, the bees are a-buzzing and the sun has shone what will probably turn out to be 90% of its shining for the year over the course of the last couple of weeks. All about us the weeds are all having a growth spurt as the usual annual battle to keep the plants we’ve actually planted alive and unchoked by interlopers has truly begun to hot up.

All those memories of dark icy mornings and roads and pavements crunchy with unwelcome and hindering snowfalls are forgotten as the days lengthen and the landscape grows ever greener and all the irritations of living hereabouts during a bitter winter fade away as we start to realise that around here is actually rather a nice place to be on a warm and lazy sunny weekend afternoon.

Across the road the ancient trees have all sprung into life and the bare twigs of winter are now verdantly covered with the green mass of leafage that so successfully disguised the industrial estate from my view during those long-ago August months when I first decided that this was a place that I could quite possibly happily live in.

All but one of the trees, that is.

For, in the midst of all this virile and sap laden forestry stands one ancient tree that so far has stubbornly refused to sprout and still stands there forlorn, naked and ancient amongst its more foppishly attired old companions.

In the middle of the bleak winter a large chunk fell off it during one gale-filled stormy night and dangled precariously for a while before being swiftly cleared away having thankfully done no damage to anyone or anything on the footpath and driveway below. More branches fell away during the recent bracing spring gusts, but it is still standing there, as resolute and sturdy looking as I’m sure it has been for decades, if just a little bit balder than usual.

It is of course just possible that it’s a late developer and I hadn’t noticed its tardiness in getting its buds out in previous years, and, by the time the risk of late frosts have properly passed, it may well be looking as vigorous and healthy as any of the others that it stands with, but, despite the fact that the jackdaws still find it a comfortable perch, I am beginning to ask myself the one question that I am reluctant to ask.

Is it now actually a dead tree?

It makes me rather sad to think that one of those aged companions that has seen so much of local life hereabouts may very well have breathed its last. Unexpectedly strong winds and storms do tend to do a very good (if a little bit distressing) job of sorting out the healthy ones, I guess, and, in nature, I suppose that everything does have its time, but the loss of a tree is always unsettling. The worst sight I ever saw when it comes to tree loss was the hundreds of acres of charred tree stumps I once saw when I visited Mount St Helens in the aftermath of the famous volcanic eruption during my holiday of the mid 1990s when that barren area was just starting its recovery. A truly devastated landscape that would have brought a lump to the throat to any but the most hard-hearted.

How do you even go about reporting a dead tree, anyway? I mean, I would know exactly what to do if I was walking my hypothetical dog and found a hypothetical dead body, for example. I would approach the nearest red kiosk, dial three nines and Morse and his chums would be around like a shot and wrapping the whole area in crime scene tape.

Sometimes I think I watch much too much old television.

But what do you do about a dead tree, especially a tree that you’re not really completely sure is actually a dead one…? And, in the unlikely event that I was successfully able to actually report a fairly random tree that looked to me to be one that was suffering, how would I identify it to the workmen who might show up to assess it? I could hardly just stand about nearby on the off chance now, could I? Would it be better to paint a big “X” on it with the words “This One” nearby, or, like a character in an old Martin Scorsese film, leave a trail of notices saying “Dead Tree This Way”…? That system has been known to work for wedding parties I recall, although the simplest way, I suppose, would to just leave a contact number and meet and greet them shortly after they (hopefully) called me back. I don’t suppose there’s much need to leave anonymous tips about the whereabouts of dead trees anyway unless you happen to be the cash-strapped landowner.

Is there a Council department for dealing with possibly deceased arboriculture anyhow? If there is, the troubled worrisome angst-filled corners of my mind already can imagine how the conversation might go.

“Excuse me, I’d like to report a dead tree…”

“Oh, really sir, now are you absolutely sure it’s dead?”

“Well, not exactly, but, well… It looks a bit dead to me…”

“Oh, something of a tree expert are we sir? Think yourself to be a bit of an amateur arboriculturalist do you?”

“Well, no…”

“”Well then. Why don’t you leave any probable premature pronouncements of its passing to the proper authorities then, sir? Impersonating a tree surgeon is a serious offence you know and is subject to a hefty fine…”

“Gulp!”

“So, I’ll ask you again. Are you absolutely sure about this, sir?”

“No. I just worried that it might… fall over and hurt someone, that’s all…”

“I think that’s highly unlikely, sir. If a tree was that far gone, do you really think that we wouldn’t be aware of it…?”

“Well, I…”

“Leave these matters to people who actually know what they’re talking about. Goodbye.”

Magically, over the course of the couple of days that have passed since I started putting these thoughts into some sort of order, the tree in question has suddenly started to sprout, and so those mythical ‘authorities’ would have been right to query my credentials in this case, had the above exchange ever taken place which proves, if nothing else, that my leaping to conclusions about things is probably a very bad habit and one that I should try very hard to break.