Eating lunch, out in the garden, there was a loud crack and the ground shuddered. I looked up,and in the space in the sky where the leaves of the whispering poplar across the lane once chattered, there was now just an open scar. On Sunday last, a large branch had come down across the road and had been quickly cleared. Declared unsafe, the majestic old tree took a further week to succumb to the chainsaw, the woodmen nimbly working up and across her outstetched arms, trimming and slowly reducing the canopy. And the lane is quiter now than it was and poorer for her passing. Here is a photo of the grand old lady, benovently inspecting our efforts last year, cutting apples prior to pressing. Sad is the song of the saw
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