Our young, jobbing forestry contractor waxes lyrical on the importance of regular check-ups and not leaving work until the very last minute – in regards to both trees and teeth!

THIS November marks three years since Storm Arwen wreaked fury across the north-east of England and laid waste to thousands of acres of woodland. Since then work has been underway to rectify the damage and I personally have been involved in over a hundred windblown sites in that time. These range from leylandii in gardens to willows in ditches to conifers in forestry blocks. With a lot of the work now done and a growing feeling that we’re on top of things it looks to me as though we’ve saved the best until last.

In fact, just this week I’ve been on three sites everyone seems keen to ignore which are composed of large, oversized hardwoods, uprooted, soil covered at the base, heavy limbed at the top but with double cream in the middle – a tonne with every cut! Beech and sycamore at its very best. The ‘finest’ is a personal perspective as it’s the cheapest to buy and fits the business model of my oversized firewood processing service.

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On paper I’ve outpriced myself with hand cutting as it now has the lowest return of the work I do in comparison to other things. It’s the job I enjoy the most, but sadly it pays the least. There is only so much you can charge a client for a skilled woodcutter holding a saw before they stop asking you back. However, in order to keep my hand in the game and to maintain my enjoyment I have recently become a timber buyer, purchasing oversized loads of hardwood for firewood dealers for whom I then process it. In this way I ‘click’ four times – get paid to fell it, paid to sell it, paid to cut it up and then paid to split it. There is no way to grade timber quite as thoroughly as dressing it out by hand with a saw and it also means that I’m first on the scene and quick to submit my bid.

Changing the subject, I recently received a voicemail from my dentist. Apparently it was now two years since my last visit and according to the policy of the practice if I didn’t call and make an appointment immediately then I’d be excommunicated from the their database and would have to roam forever with all those other desperate individuals in a world of perpetual toothache. This seemed somewhat odd to me as I clean my teeth regularly and there didn’t appear to be a problem, so why try to fix something that doesn’t need fixing? Concerned with the outcome of inaction, I hurriedly organised an appointment.

Interestingly, they were able to accommodate me the very next day, which seemed to suggest those in dental purgatory weren’t exactly banging at the door. And so, for the benefit of the local dental practitioner, the chainsaws had the day off. To my great surprise I managed to dig out some clothes that wouldn’t overpower the staff with the smell of sawdust and petrol, gave my teeth one last polish and set off to see the tooth man. What could possibly go wrong?

In every other check-up I can recall I have entered the surgery, sat in a large unfriendly chair at a strange angle, opened my mouth and then allowed a complete stranger to fish around for several minutes with strange pointed instruments while muttering a series of numbers to a nearby assistant. This done, I’m then free to go. However, on this occasion I was given a severe bollocking for the apparent neglect I’d subjected my teeth to. Having completed the checkup, the dentist subjected me to an intense medical investigation regarding my lifestyle. The questions then came quick and fast. Any allergies? Did I smoke? Was I on any medication? Did I take recreational drugs? Did I exercise? I looked at him from the vulnerable position of the chair and thought to myself that there was no way he could keep up with me for a single day. Then the killer question: Did I drink? I could have lied through my teeth. However, on this occasion I thought I had nothing to lose by telling the truth. “Yes,” I said.

“How many units a week?” he pressed. Frustratingly for him I’m not very good with units and converted my average weekly consumption into pints. This resulted in a five-minute lecture designed, I think, to make me believe I was an alcoholic with an immune system on the verge of collapse, reduced fertility, a likelihood of a range of cancers and, of course, eventual toothlessness. My drinking habits clearly didn’t meet with his approval, over which he had a bee in his bonnet, an ant in his pants and a wasp in his crocks.

As the bollocking continued I began to wonder who’d put him up to this. Was it the NHS? I tried to reason with him on the grounds that I do a very physical job and after a long day in the woods it’s good to relax in a local pub over a few pints. He wasn’t having any of it and continued to lecture me, so I decided to play the game and tell him exactly what he wanted to hear so that as we approached the subject of cleaning the teeth (remember that?) I became the perfect patient.

“Do you use an electric brush?” he asked.

“Of course,” I replied. “Furthermore, I floss regularly, sometimes four times a day.” Fortunately my nose didn’t grow and he seemed to be pacified by my compliance.

I was raised to believe that honesty is the best policy. However, to avoid this kind of ‘feel bad’ experience I suggest next time you undergo a similar interrogation, just lie.

For over 14 years now I’ve been contracting my services to the local Duke’s estate: planting trees, thinning trees, felling trees, processing firewood, shearing sheep, fixing field drains and repairing fencing. Recently I’ve been contacted more and more by the estate office, which I put down to my reliability, work ethos and fairness when pricing. Other contractors seem to double their pricing and half their work rate when they see it’s the Duke, whereas I remain consistent across the board. And these smaller requests do add up.

Recently I received a request from the estate office regarding an old sycamore tree not far from my house. 

(Image: FJ/DG)

Some time ago I saw the tree was dying and reported the matter to the office on the grounds of safety to those using the village hall. The job then would have been easy. It would have been safe to fell from the base and could easily have been cleaned up and processed into firewood one Sunday afternoon with the help of some local villagers in return for logs. Clearly my advice was ignored and the said tree now resembles a glass structure waiting to explode into a million pieces upon hitting the ground and sending broken limbs in the direction of the village hall windows. I quite enjoy the back-and-forth emails.

Hi Daniel,

Please check out the attached location plans.

I believe that you live in this area and wondered whether you had seen the dead tree as marked on the plans adjacent to the village hall?

I wondered whether you were able to fell this tree in return for the wood content and leave the smaller branch wood as a neat deadwood habitat pile.

With thanks,
The Estate.

Dear Estate,

I know this tree! It’s a 60’ tall dead sycamore which would be excellent for firewood this year.

It would fell straight into the show field as it has a dominant lean but is still healthy enough to secure a string hinge. However, there is a net stock fence in front of it which would need a section taken down or a straw bale put up against it to avoid damage. In addition to the tree being dead, upon landing it will scatter its smaller branch wood far and wide across the farmer’s pasture land which is likely to cause him concern and create a deadwood habitat amongst his Swaledale hogs.

The main issue concerning me is the tree’s proximity to the village hall (within two tree lengths) which would cause my public liability insurance to be invalid and I know from past experience how keen you are to do things by the book. On this occasion I recommend you contact one of your experienced tree surgery arborists to take a look.

If it would help the situation I can take some detailed photographs of the scene and pass those onto you as I pass it at least twice a day.

Yours sincerely,
Daniel