Of Tennis Balls And Apple Trees

Four weeks in and still no internet at the new house - which might not be an entirely bad thing, as we've been able to settle in with minimal distraction. It already seems an age since these photos were taken, the morning after our arduous relocation.

In addition to this confrontation of boxes, there was also a damp garage, 4/5^ths full of boxes of books needing prompt evacuation.  (Oh, and the Ark of the Covenant in there somewhere too.)

How would we ever find anything ever again?

Enter Ted, who had watched our old home disappear into boxes and now explored these unfamiliar rooms, his head tilted upwards as he tried to make sense of this latest example of unfathomable behaviour on the part of the monkeys. 

Then, twenty-five seconds into this new existence, he leapt on one box amongst ten thousand and retrieved from its depths a tennis ball, thus restoring the balance of the entire Universe.  Well done, that dog. 

Later, Dru came by and kindly transported my grandmother’s apple tree*, dug up and lodging in my former neighbour’s back garden, to its new home, via in a wheelie bin on top of her Morris Traveller. And replanted it just before the single heavy frost of this winter so far.  Whereupon we repaired to Asda to buy some cider for wassailing, in the hope it will survive its transplanting. 

‘Here’s to thee, young apple tree,

That blooms well, bears well,

Hats full, caps full,

Three bushel bags full,

An’ all under one tree. Hurrah! Hurrah!’


*grown from seed from the last apples gathered from my grandmother's garden,  a couple of months after her death in 1991