before, from the bridge side
before from the Rue St Roch side
Something had to give with the huge old willow that filled the garden space next to the house. At its first crotch, the rot was elbow deep and a big hole had been eaten out of one of the trunk-sized branches. It made me nervous to see anybody stand under it for very long. The other side of the tree reached up higher than the house and fountained down a wonderful shower of whips with little leaves and fresh yellow catkins. Wolfgang, who is after all a forester with a PhD, looked it over years ago and advised us to watch and wait.
So we got Denis Passedat over and let him convince us to subject it to major surgery. That was a few weeks ago, longer than the delai promised so we were both waiting but with dread as the profligacy antics of this tree won our hearts again.
The call came, M. Passedat had a job cancelled, was it ok to come over. Franck Rondelé showed up first, Passedat’s subcontract tree surgeon (elagueur). What a demanding metier; you need to a. climb b. not fall c. not cut off your own limbs or the limb you are sitting on. I wanted to make this little joke but couldn’t overcome my laryngitis to make myself heard. Just as well, M. Rondelé was on his third major project of the day and looked tired. He wore no ear protection from his Jonsereds.
after, back side
after, Rue St Roch side
Mrs Snoutsworthy is far from reconciled to the devastation much as I try to console her the rot can now possibly be arrested. There's suddenly so much more light and the little garden shed no longer hides shyly in the corner. We have pretty much the messiest garden in the village, like an adolescent with long hair arranged to conceal pimples.
