I suppose something had to happen. We’ve had the most terrible weather, with very high winds – gusts of 109 and 102mph recorded at Aberdaron just across the bay – plus lots of rain and incursions of the sea. Happily I’m on the 100m contour so the latter wasn’t so much of a problem here, but my ancient rowan tree eventually gave up the fight against the first two.
Yesterday P was walking round the corner of the house, in yet another 70mph gale, when he noticed the whole rowan blowing in the wind. Despite being able to see the trunk quite clearly from inside (hello rowan), I’d not spotted what was going on. Blowing lightly in the breeze is not something the tree normally does, being taller than the house…
The trunk was shifting by centimetres each time, and stones were becoming dislodged from the wall above which it sits. P rushed off to get his chainsaw, I made an emergency call to another friend (this was definitely a two-man job, if only to control the inner 8-year-old that seems to pop into existence in trees), and then kept my fingers crossed that nothing would happen before they both arrived. Not only is the tree taller than the house, it’s also very close, and I could see an unfortunate tree-through-roof-and-onto-kitchen-table scenario playing out.
Happily, it didn’t. Unhappily I’ve lost my rowan.
The gusts were only about 60mph at this point, by the way; I delivered my usual absolutely no liability whatsoever speech and went to make tea. I then reappeared, in my by now traditional role as Chief Dragger of Brash to the Bonfire Heap, and started dealing with the debris. The weather deteriorated even further, so as soon as the tree was safe we retreated to the kitchen to polish off the Christmas cake.
The unsafe stones have been removed from the wall, the top garden is covered in branches, the trunk is in two sections and I feel really, really exposed.
And I don’t like living without a rowan by the house either, which my mother would have undoubtedly filed in her ‘Celtic bollocks’ category of statement (though she never interfered with her own rowans – note the plural – or her father’s, despite annual chuntering about berries dropping). There are all sorts of superstitions about cutting them down, anyway, though apparently it’s all right if you have no choice – we really didn’t – and I will be planting another, just further away.
My house is, however, still well ‘protected’; there are three ashes, a small holly and there’s iron all over the place – horseshoes above doors and even built into the garden walls along with old nails. This is undoubtedly because the field diagonally opposite me is supposed to be one where the Tylwyth Teg, aka the Fair Folk, dance, or did until they built affordable housing on it. Someone I know swears he saw one, sitting on the field gate, when he was about 7 (so it probably wasn’t the Sixteen Pints of Guinness Fairy). More realistically it’s probably an archaeological site: legends of that nature combined with a name suggestive of something built (‘red castle’), and nine times out of ten you’ve got archaeological remains. But I’m not cutting down the holly or removing the iron just yet… and I still have my guardian cement budgie, sitting on its trunk:
When I went back through all my photos trying to find pictures of the rowan in its splendour, I was shocked at how few I have. This is possibly because it’s – sorry, it was – so close to the house, but it often seems to spring up in the background or framing a view. So here, in honour of my late lamented rowan, is a gallery of its glory (just click on an image for a slideshow). Sniffle.