Monday, February 26, 2024
During the storms earlier this year we watched our lovely cypress tree bending in the wind (and exposing the street light that its branches have enveloped) and decided it might be time for it to go. We wouldn't mind if it fell into our garden, but that would require a south-easterly wind - not too frequent here. It would be more likely to fall across the road and possibly injure or even kill someone.
I took a shot of Greger beside it, which gives it some scale. I then roughly measured how many Gregers it would take to reach the top - while Greger himself worked out the height a bit more scientifically with the aid of trigonometry. I came up with 10.6 metres, Greger with between 10 and 12 metres.
The men would need the drive for their vehicles so I went off to Achnahaird - for the first time this year. Birdie firsts for the year were three dunlin, three shelduck, and a handful of skylarks. On the way out I stopped for the umpteenth time to snap Cul Beag (the man on the walk highlands website pronounces it something like "Cool Bake" - but with the ea in Beag sounding not quite like the a in bake and not quite like the e in beck.) The name means "small back", as it is lower than its neighbour, Cul Mor (big back). But I always find this hill more impressive, because as you drive out of the Coigach area it rises directly ahead - an obstacle and a challenge. The road runs along its lower slopes which then plunge into the loch - unusual, and maybe even unique for hills in the area.
When I arrived home the men were clearing up and the cypress tree was gone. Greger had videoed the felling, which was done quickly and professionally; and when he showed me the clip I must admit to getting a bit tearful. In the years we've lived here, the tree has provided shelter and perches for lots of birds, including a brambling and a barred warbler; its tiny cones have been plundered for their seeds by siskins and redpolls; and the very top has been used fleetingly as a lookout point by waxwings, collared doves, rooks, and on one occasion by a mistle thrush.
I've never been a crying sort of person, but this is the third time this year I've got weepy. The second time was on rewatching the last episode of "Unforgotten" with Nicola Walker; and the first time, back in January, was on reading a Country Diary in the Guardian by Nicola Chester. Chester is an excellent writer on the natural world, and is of extra interest to me because she lives in west Berkshire surrounded by countryside that's familiar from one of our Saturday walks. This particular column is an account of a local walk, when she finds herself missing the family's dog that had recently been put down in its old age. A fine piece of writing.
