This particular tree had been looking a bit manky for several years, and a great chunk of the bark had rotted off - and when I eventually cut it, the entire core of the trunk was so soft that I could push my fingers into the mush at the centre. If I were perfectly honest I'd also say that it was 'in the way' of a path that we wanted to open up - and that the apples were always horrible!
But hey, the Victorians would grow any kind of fruit that would store safely through the winter and then provide vitamin C for the family through until April or May. For them, taste was a minor sophistication. The fact that it came in a format like a cricket ball that had to be boiled for three hours before your gut could process it was, for them, a minor inconvenience. No Chilean Granny Smiths or Golden Disgustings in those days....
But anyway. We declared a small vote of thanks to the first designer of the garden (whose name we happen to know), and then we cut the rotted tree down to a 9 inch stump and tipped the sawn trunk into the back of the bushes, where it'll harbour creepy crawlies and the occasional hedgehog for many years to come. My good sir, we salute you.
The story might not be over, of course. What's the betting that the stump will now sprout back from the base and give another 130 years?
BJ
