The Last Sleeping Tree

There is one tree in the Night Planted Orchard which we have not yet been able to wake.

It will have taken four years to rennovate the hedges. Last year we pulled out stems fourteen feet long and turned them into rustic fences. Even then it took five huge bonfires to clear all the waste. That completed the western side of the orchard just before the birds called time on our marathon hedging efforts. That allowed so much more light into the orchard that we had a bumper crop in a year when most of the trees are supposed to be dormant. This year I cut the eastern side back, at least as far as the scrubby wood next door will allow. The shape and height is restored all around the orchard. In the section of the garden left to wildlife and wild flowers, I left a taller run but even the very furthest reaches, where the garden ends at a deep ditch and the fen begins, are now back to proper hedge height and trim. Now that the overgrowth is pushed right back, new growth can hold its own in the gaps. We'll take advantage of the delay from this late cold to lay some hedges in those gaps, perhaps plant some more damsons and sloes. Finally, in the autumn, we'll tidy up.

There are two objectives to renovating the hedges. One is to restore a fine set of country hedges to good health after years of neglect. The other is to bring more light to the orchard. During the process I discovered among the thick tree-like stems, a run of thinner, tamer wood. I took this back to its natural height. At the end of the day, walking back through the orchard, I looked back and saw that this old gap in the hedge aligned perfectly with a long gap between the willows at the fen's edge. In the morning, I discovered that this south-easterly gap floods the orchard with early morning light. Perhaps I would have started with that stretch if I'd known. Perhaps the light will melt the frost in the orchard and that might be a problem in itself - I've always tried to let the frost leave of its own free will - or perhaps, just perhaps, it might extend the light on the one tree that we have not been able to wake in the last five years. We think it may be a nectarine or a peach but whatever it is, it's too sad to set blossom with its pretty toes cold and damp all year.

Perhaps a regular morning sip at the light will cheer it up. We'll see.