Thursday, 22 January 2015
And Yew and Yew
On BBC Winterwatch they've just been talking about yew trees and I was reminded so suddenly and strongly of Miss Toomey, the dinner lady at my 2nd primary school (in Highnam, Glos). Very old but agile, woolly beret'd, fluffy coated, speccy, and thin as a stick, she'd have climbed up the bank from the dell and would suddenly appear from behind the trunk I'd repeatedly climbed to an enormous height and in an old-lady screech she'd shout,
Get down, Stewart, them berries is poisonous! [No-one else has ever called me Stewart, but realising quickly that it'd help me avoid further trouble, I didn't complain].
And again I remember - it'd be probably 7-8 years later - clouds of gnats dancing in the glare of the setting sun when one late autumn evening my dad and I were voluntarily doing surgery on the old yew trees in the churchyard at Cantref. And the chainsaw blunted so quickly on the steely branches. And we'd forgotten the sharpening file. So we left the job in a bit of a mess. And next evening it was raining and we had to come back to finish off.
And because we like things in threes
I'm wondering why it was that my dad, ostensibly a peaceful man, then a Liberal but nowadays Green-voting, a fourth generation vegetarian, chapel-going but later a Quaker, should enjoy so much and so often telling me about the bloodthirsty Battle of Crécy (and others), in which much killing of the French was done by the English armed with longbows of yew, when after all it was 280 years since the Norman Conquest and WTF were we doing being a bloody nuisance in someone else's back yard? Again.
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