Free Reflections of Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Page A

reckoning had finally arrived. The once small, graceful tree had become a towering hazard, its branches over-hanging our long sloping roof. Apart from any damage it would do if it ever fell, the constant cleaning out of twigs and fallen leaves from the channels between the tiles was an essential but irksome task. Mike had constructed a long pole with a hook at one end to tackle this, but in fact, he often had to also climb up on the roof to dislodge a particularly stubborn clump of moss, growing on its own perfect little compost heap of leaves. If these were left they would act as adam and the rain would back up and eventually find a way through the tiles. One year we even had to uproot a couple of self-sown teazles actually flourishing on the roof.
    We spoke to our friend Simone, who has a large garden with many trees, and she recommended the services of a Monsieur Bentoglio. We were sad to contemplate the felling of the tree but knew that it was essential. M. Bentoglio whistled when he first saw the height of it and the position but reassured us that it would present no problem, apart from costing us £320. Now, on the day of the felling, a team of four had arrived; Monsieur and Madame Bentoglio, their son and the man who seemed to be in charge of the lorry. He, it seemed, would do most of the cutting and work from the cabin at the top of the elevator arm. The main difficulty, apart from not letting heavy branches drop onto the roof, was the small space between the two trees in which to manoeuvre the elevator lorry. We did not want to damage our other tree.
    It was fascinating to watch them work as a team. The lorry was constantly moved and jacked into different positions. The cutter dealt with the higher, smaller branches first, lopping and stacking them beside him in the elevator platform. When there was no more room on the platform he would lower himself, to where he could safely throw the branches down. He never threw anything without looking first and theothers never moved without checking. M. Bentoglio picked the branches up. The son quickly chain-sawed them into manageable lengths, constructing a neat log pile as he did so, and Madame, in her neat spotted pinafore, raked and cleared the bits.
    Minute by minute the shape of our very high tree changed as the top branches disappeared. As well as a power saw, the cutter also used a long, sharp lance for smaller branches and with this he would loop and tie a rope to secure and control heavier branches. At last there remained only the largest, most dangerous overhanging branch to remove. While M. Bentoglio hung onto the rope, his face red with the effort, the last great limb was severed and turned safely away from the roof, and finally M. Bentoglio himself ceremonially sawed through the trunk. Our tree was no more. Instead we had a neatly stacked pile of logs, the cut ends making a very pleasing design of varying circles. An equally tidy pile of small branches was left to dry alongside the barn. The ivy-covered trunk waited to be taken one day to the sawmill, and all that remained to remind us of the operation was a bright, sweet-scented ring of new sawdust. It took this organised and very professional team almost three hours and we reckoned they had earned their money.
     
    While Kevin and Pat were hard at work transforming the chateau, their wives, Claudia and Diane, broughtthe children up to Bel-Air to swim. Thomas and Kieran immediately made friends and Thomas would return with him to go exploring the chateau and the grounds. One evening when I went to collect him, Kitty, Kieran’s young sister, offered, with a delightfully proprietorial air, to take me on a tour. Although living very comfortably in their large mobile-homes, the children had made a playroom in the chateau. In the large reception room next to the kitchen, modern plastic toys and children’s tricycles stood incongruously on the elegantly tiled but dusty floor. Dolls sprawled in a heap on a coloured