Category Archives: Trees

Keeping Busy, Keeping Warm

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The grounds of the Priory can be a scary place when the wind gets up.

DSC_3691Even the largest trees twist and sway alarmingly; creaking, groaning and occasionally hurling down dead branches.  Generally, I think of trees as benign stalwarts but in high winds, I keep a wary eye on them and avoid walking beneath those shuddering arms.

DSC_0047Afterwards, I collect all the branch and twig litter and barrow it off to the bonfire site.

20130114_111702Except for bigger, heftier branches.  These I haul off to the ‘Nissan Hut’.

DSC_0102 This is one of two that we have and is, I think, a 1940′s construction.  It isn’t a building of great beauty (though not without some charm), and as it is gently crumbling, we did consider demolition.  But its roof is asbestos and professional removal would have been prohibitively expensive.  One day, when one of the huge oak boughs above crashes down, we will have to dismantle it, but in the meantime I’m glad we kept the ‘hut.  DSC_0104It makes a fine, temporary log store for wind-fallen and pruned branches, as well as any felled trees.  It is a dry place to work when it is pouring with rain or …

DSC_4699

… snowing.  With the radio on, one might even call it cosy.

DSC_0111Using an axe is obviously warm work but, perhaps surprisingly, so is wielding a chainsaw.  Perfect cold-weather work and lots of it too.  Once chain-sawed or split, I take the logs to another outbuilding containing old pigsties.

DSC_4355This sty holds all the logs I’ve cut/split this winter: a stack five foot high, fifteen long and five rows deep.  We have quite a backlog (!) of firewood, so these logs won’t be burned for three or four years; more than enough time to season.

I don’t think we shall be cutting any trees down at the Priory this year, but at the Old Forge, I’ve felled half a dozen dead pines.

DSC_4588Call me over-cautious, call me timorous but working alone with a chainsaw and on a slope, this is about as big a tree as I will tackle.

DSC_4592Cut up, mixed with hardwood and seasoned, the pine will eventually be used on the house woodburner.

Incidentally, if you’re unsure which wood burns best, the following poem is a good starting point.

‘Song of the Forest Trees’

Logs to Burn! Logs to Burn!
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
when you hear the woodman’s cries.

Beechwood fires burn bright and clear
Hornbeam blazes too;
If the logs are kept a year
To season through and through.

Oak logs will warm you well,
That are old and dry;
Logs of pine will sweetly smell
But the sparks will fly.

Birch logs will burn too fast;
Chestnut scarce at all;
Hawthorn logs are good to last -
Cut them in the fall.

Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green;
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.

Beech logs for the winter time,
Yew logs heat as well;
Green elder logs it is a crime
For anyone to sell.

Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room;
Cherry logs across the dogs
Smell like flowers of broom.

Ash logs, smooth and grey
Burn them green or old,
Buy up all that comes your way
Worth their weight in gold.*

Holly and ash do indeed make fine firewood and may be burnt ‘green’ – though you shouldn’t have to.  Ideally, season all firewood for a year or two.  Personally, despite the above, I find Sweet Chestnut burns well – perhaps they mean Horse Chestnut which I haven’t tried.  The poem doesn’t mention willow or alder; the Priory has plenty of both and when dry and seasoned, they too make excellent firewood.  Burning too much conifer can lead to a build up of resinous tar in your chimney and increase the risk of a chimney fire.  And you seriously don’t want that.  If you’re ordering a load of firewood, do ask what sort of wood you’re buying: rather a mix of oak and ash than, say, leylandii!  And order only from a recommended, reputable supplier.  A friend of mine didn’t and had a huge tipper-load of sopping wet logs dumped on her driveway.

Anyway, back at the Priory, I also keep warm by tending to the …

DSC_4184… seven large compost bins.  I turn the contents regularly, though when I built them …

DSC_4172… I hadn’t foreseen how much rainwater they would hold and how that would turn the surrounding ground into a quagmire.  Definitely, welly work.  After a few minutes pitch-forking, I’ve already removed two of my statutory five-layer, winter clothing.

DSC_4570Whenever, I turn compost there will always be a robin close by.  Always.

And living in the compost …

DSC_2611… is a fine, big, fat toad (November 2012).  Feeding on my worms, no doubt.  I occasionally get mole hills beside the bins too – it seems allsorts of creatures covet my lovely worms.  Frogs and toads in the compost would explain why a grass snake (Natrix natrix) has taken to hanging about – (filmed last summer).

Beauty isn’t he?  And a big ‘un.

As I’m jogging about the estate, doing star jumps, staving off frostbite, I keep an eye on Margaret’s sheep.  Occasionally, after heavy rain I’ll see a ‘cast’ ewe, ie one on its back and unable to right herself.

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Her ‘friends’ are supremely un-concerned by her plight

Sorry, not a great photo – I used my phone as it seemed discourteous to leave the poor thing feebly waggling her legs whilst I ran for my camera.  Once tugged back upright, she was fine and wobbled away without so much as a thankful nod or glance.  Left alone, wet, and particularly pregnant, ewes are often unable to get on to their feet and can die; a soaked fleece is very heavy!  So if you see a cast sheep, do help out.  It won’t thank you but the farmer will.

DSC_4224I’d never seen this before.  Like an oxpecker on an impala, this magpie is feeding on parasites.

DSC_4227Initially, I worried it was pecking at the ewe’s eyes.  But no, it was just gently probing about for ticks and grubs.  It also spent some time diligently probing the ewe’s bottom – I’ll spare you that photo.

DSC_4230 Happy magpie, happy sheep.  Such a simple, symbiotic, Serengeti-ish, Sussex sylvan scene.

Warms my heart.

* Reproduced from ‘Learning to Live in the Country’ by Kathy Jones

I Turn My Back For Five Minutes

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We’ve been on a city-break to Antwerp.  Thought I’d better scrub up a bit first, so I had my monthly bath a couple of weeks early, scoured (most of) the ingrained grime from my hands and scraped (most of) the soil from under my fingernails.  I even had a haircut, a shave (radical, I know), changed out of my gardening trousers, stood them up by the washing machine and pulled on some new clothes.  Barely recognised myself.

Antwerp was sunny and warm and friendly; we sat at pavement cafés, sipping coffee and one or two (!?) cold beers and people-watched.  The only stress?  To see how much we could possibly get through at a fabulous €20 a head, eat-as-much-as-you-like Japanese restaurant.  (I suspect they’ll review their pricing policy after we waddled out, whimpering in gluttonous pain).

On returning home though I had a worrying text from Nick* (who helps me on some of the jobs at the Priory, such as mowing the meadow and cutting the hedges).   He wrote that a tree had come down during the stormy weather last weekend (which had missed Belgium completely).  But he didn’t say which tree it was, only that it had done so with several people about; my heart sank at the thought of one of the big ash or alder having ker-plunked into the east pond; or (no, please, no) one of the signature oaks, keeled over; shattered and splintered across the lawns.

Thankfully it was a Robinia pseudoacacia which, of all the trees, I was most ready to sacrifice (except for some of the conifers which, if tottering in high winds, I might have given an obliging nudge).  The Robinia had had sparse leaf and even sparser flower during my time; it always looked a little gaunt and a little sickly standing above the car park.  Though it never occurred to me that it was in danger of toppling over.

Amazingly Nick (who took the above two photos), Margaret (the farmer), Jo (the cleaner) and Reg (of the mighty digger) had all just arrived, parked and gone into the house.  When Nick came back out shortly afterwards, the tree was down – having narrowly missed Jo’s car.  Could have been a lot worse – if the robinia had come down a few minutes earlier it probably would have bonked someone on the head.

The beech hedge was surprisingly OK; a little crumpled and the beech arch a little dented.  And Nick earned himself a gold star by sawing and tidying up.

Otherwise the storm left the gardens fairly untouched; though some of my foxgloves (planted in a stretch of young beech) have taken a bow.  How gracious.

*Nick (his real name) is ‘Tim’ in some earlier posts.  This anonymity lark can get so confusing.

Tending Trees Part 2

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I don’t know exactly how many trees I’ve planted during the past four years.  Not counting a hundred and seventy beech-hedge saplings or five yew-hedge ‘trees’ or any of the ‘shrubs’ that will attain tree-like status (photinias and cotinus for example), I guess about forty.  During the same period, we’ve felled perhaps a dozen dead or unwanted trees … but the Priory is still up on the deal.  And it’s a net increase which will only grow; I want to plant more.

I recently put in three Cornus controversa ‘Variegata’ which, as they can grow eight metres high, let’s call ‘trees’ shall we?

Digging into rain-sodden, heavy clay was a joyless, back-breaking task but one I was determined not to give up on.

Ten minutes later I gave up.

But, after a mug of Earl Grey, I came back and finished the job.  The Priory owner suggested planting them closely together and I think he’s right – they should look fine as a mature grouping.

In early 2009, I planted three Eucalyptus gunnii in the small copse up on the drive.  One, sadly, has died but the other two have romped away.  Indeed they have romped away too quickly.

Last winter, weighed down by snow or battered by strong winds, they would often kiss the ground and the root balls rock alarmingly.  They seemed to grow quicker than either their stems or their anchoring root system could cope with – so I decided to pollard them.  I do this to a gunnii in the gardens – to encourage the glaucous, round juvenile leaves.  But here I just wanted mighty, towering eucalypts with a far, high canopy – a goal that will now be delayed.

It’s not an elegant look, but they should soon re-spurt – and the roots and trunk will have time to grow sufficiently strong to support all that top weight.

Three or four years ago I stuck a neighbour’s pruned willow twigs into a pot and, even though they had been lying about for several days, they quickly rooted.  The willow was a corkscrew (Salix matsudana ‘Tortuosa’) and last year I planted it out on the east lawn.

It is growing nicely; the lawn here is often soggy.

In my first year, I planted an olive tree on a lawn just outside the gardens.  This was before I had fully realised just what a sharp frost pocket the gardens sit in.  The olive struggled valiantly for a couple of years and then, with a shiver, a sigh and a wistful longing for the warm shores of the Med, it died.  I replaced it (on what I still call the olive lawn), with a …

…  columnar Beech (Fagus sylvatica ‘Dawyck Gold’) – eventual height 15 – 20 metres! It seems much happier than the poor olive ever was.

These two flowering cherries ‘Kanzan’ are growing well too.

April 2011

The flowers are a little too pink and a little too fluffy for my taste.  But what could I do?   They were in a plant sale and incredibly cheap.  And the red leaves are undeniably handsome.

Recently, we had some uninvited guests (see … ‘Do Not Tempt Fate’) and actually, they behaved appallingly – killing two apple trees in the meadow; now replaced with ‘Katy’ and ‘Cox’s Orange Pippin’.

To keep out the deer, we did consider fencing the garden with six-foot high wire but, as the owner remarked, it would have given the gardens a POW-camp air – not a look we particularly wanted.   Option two was to individually protect the young trees on the meadow and I asked Rob the Brickie (not his real name) to build some wooden barriers.

I was worried that they would look too big and boxy, so Rob and I decided on ‘vase’ shapes to lessen their impact.  Over the course of several days, Rob made twelve of these.  Great to have him on board at times like this.

I’m very pleased with them; I didn’t want big wooden structures in the meadow but given that I had to, I am very pleased with them.  In time the timber will silver and become lichen encrusted and they’ll be rather stately, I think.

I should hate for all these fruit varieties to become anonymous; I wanted to label them for the future – for when me and my Blue Notebook have long gone.   So I had these brass plaques made and for consistency even the easily recognisable Gingko has a plaque.

The trees need to grow of course; up and above the timber cages.  But at least they now have a chance to do just that without the unwanted (and uninvited) attentions of fallow deer.

Tending Trees Part 1

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When I took the job at the Priory, I (naively) didn’t appreciate how much time and care the trees would require.

Each year, I arrange for any sickly, dangerous or unwanted trees to be felled and for dead, rotten and restricted  branches to be removed.

If  a smallish tree needs felling or a low branch removing, I’ll do the job myself; anything larger and I need to get in help.  This year, there were no trees to chop down (a good thing) but I still had tree-work that was either too high for me to reach (I have no head for heights) or beyond my skill level (hard to believe I know, but true).

On the drive, just before it turns and enters the gardens, is a large candelabra-shaped ash tree.  After a mighty storm in early February, a big, rotten section of one of its many stems, crashed to the ground below.  Peering up at this elephant-skinned giant, I could see that there was still a big length of trunk and two or three dead branches that needed to be removed.  (At this point, the drive is a public right of way and so the tree needed to be made safe).

The rotten trunk is to the right of the tree surgeon

So, at the end of March, I hired a local company (who I’ve used these past two or three years) to tackle this and two other jobs.  Jack (the tree surgeon) gradually reduced the rotten bole …

Another chunk of rotten tree-trunk falls to earth

… and removed the dead branches.

I also asked for advice on two of the big oaks on the east lawn.  We had spoken about them last year and I wanted him to cast a professional eye over them.

Here they are on the right.  They have sparse top growth, crumbling bark and plenty of dead branches.  Last year he told me that they were dying from the top down and probably won’t survive many more years.  He suggested that they may have been struck by lightning.

Unlike ash, oak is as hard as iron (-ish) and far less likely to shed branches; unless they are rotten.  After a quick inspection, he saw no need to carry out any remedial work.  These two oaks should be fine (and safe) until another check is carried out next year.

Reassured, we then moved on to job number two.  This was a quickie; just a simple lifting of the tree-crown (by the removal of two or three lower branches) from the tulip tree next to the house.

Before

We wanted to increase space and light for the amelanchier on the left and for the yew hedging beneath.

After

You can hardly see the difference which is how tree maintenance should be, I suppose.  Nothing too drastic.

But the final job was to be more drastic.

On the west lawn by the pond are six weeping willows and I had been asked by the Priory owner to have the crown of the largest reduced by about 25%.  I  was worried that such a big crown reduction, at this time of year, would look ugly, perhaps harm the tree and (despite being willow) that it wouldn’t re-sprout.

“Such a big crown reduction, at this time of year, won’t look too ugly, won’t harm the tree and (being willow) it will soon re-sprout,”  said Jack.  Huh?!?  I hate that mind-reading thing he does.

Once more aloft, Jack starts work while his assistant waits below.

And when they had finished?  Noticeable certainly – but more light for the house and for a pair of adjacent birches.

A good morning’s work then.  Three jobs done, loads more firewood for me to chop next winter, plenty of waste for a big bonfire (always a joy) and a metre high mound of wood chippings.  And the trees on the estate made safe for another year – fingers crossed.

Sussex Eucalypts

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Were you to walk up the drive from the Priory you would, after a couple of hundred yards, come to an area of mown grass surrounded on three sides by the margins of a small wood. In January 2009, I thought it would be a good idea to plant Eucalyptus gunnii here.  Three of them.  So I did.
Here is a photo of that day – you can make out that the young trees are barely as tall as my spade.  I wanted to plant eucalypts, after reading an article about a garden in, I think, Sussex.  A beautiful garden with a high storey of eucalyptus and a lovely under-planting of light-shade loving plants.  I can’t for the life of me remember which garden it was but I was taken with the idea.  Now though, I regret planting something so, well, alien in the Sussex Weald.  I wish I’d planted hazel or sweet chestnut.  Yes.  A nice sweet chestnut copse.  That I could coppice.  Something native – or at least something that has been native for a couple of millenia.  (Sweet chestnut was introduced to Britain by the Romans).
But I didn’t and now, almost three years on, the eucalypts have romped away.  I have stuck an Anxious Gardener into shot to give an idea of scale.  (For those of you still using old money, 1 AG = 6 feet or 1 metre 83cm). The eucalyptus above has done particularly well.
The second tree is also going strong. (Incidentally, despite looking like fake, ceramic toadstools, those are real ink caps).
And the third eucalyptus?  Frankly rubbish.  It isn’t well and is either dead or dying.  Shame.  I shall leave it be over the winter and see whether it re-sprouts next spring.  I have experience of failing eucalypts; oh, yes.
On a further area of lawn, is a snow gum (Eucalyptus pauciflora) a particularly beautiful tree (I think) and super hardy (-20C).  Something wasn’t right however because though it was seven or eight feet tall when I planted it, this year it died back to ground level.  Now, whenever I walk past it, I crouch down and give it a little pep talk.  It seems to be responding and is coming back.
There is one other eucalyptus at the Priory.  This is also a gunnii and I planted it last year in the garden, in the rock border.
Here, I am growing it as a shrub.  In it’s second (forthcoming) spring I shall cut the stem down to 18 – 24 inches and strip off any remaining branches.  I’ll be left with a ‘stick’ in the ground.  Lovely.  I shall panic – but then within a few weeks the ‘stick’ will re-sprout and I’ll have an impressive flush of the pretty, round, glaucous juvenile leaves.  (As the tree grows bigger it’s leaves become thinner, longer and more pointy).  In it’s third spring (and subsequent ones), I shall snip off all it’s branches to encourage fresh growth.  I’d better not forget to keep on cutting it back.  Eucalypts grow to be big trees.  There is an enormous specimen at Sheffield Park (a National Trust property in East Sussex).  Planted in the first years of the 20th century you, me and another couldn’t link arms about it’s mighty trunk.  They are impressive evergreens but they grow very big, very fast and are brittle; they shed branches easily and often. So if you’re planning on planting one, be warned!  Don’t plant one near your house (like dozens I’ve seen) and don’t park your mint 1950 Bentley underneath one.
And finally, whatever you do, don’t ever introduce them to Sicily where they will quickly colonize the whole island.  Doh!  Too late.