The guardians of the place - Part 1: Living with seven Great Elders
21 January 2026, late afternoon.
“If you want to look after your trees, really, just leave them alone.”
CM arrives on the hill half an hour late. A bit dishevelled, gentle, energetic, less burly than I’d imagined. Miramon welcomes him with a spectacular twilight fireworks display of clouds, gold and light, the northern horizon even shimmering with the beginnings of an incredible rainbow, like an iridescent waterfall.
But he has eyes only for the seven oak trees that have stood there for at least a century or two, according to his estimates. “We’ll disappear, but they’ll remain long after us – at least, let’s hope so for the Earth’s sake.”
He walks the grounds, gazing skywards, touching the trunks with respect, reading the architecture and life paths of these ancient giants, attentive to the signs. He points here to a broken branch, there to some ivy that will eventually choke one of the oaks if it isn’t pruned – “but ivy isn’t bad: it brings a lot of coolness to the tree in summer! ’ He speaks of generations of cows that have come to rub against the trunks; explains to us the profound intelligence of trees in the face of fungal attacks; curses the brush cutters that must have gouged the bark. Attempts the impossible - to give us a quick summary of the complex interactions linking these trees, both with one another and with the other living beings that surround them in this place. Even a sickly, stunted tree can play a key role for the others.
"A good tree surgeon, you know, touches the trees as little as possible.”
He stands where our few bamboo plants mark out the house’s layout on the ground, about fifteen metres from the oaks. “You’re already at a reasonable distance, but if this one were to fall flat on its back, the topmost branches could still reach the house over a distance of five or six metres.” In his eyes, a mixture of regret and a touch of fatalism. “I’m not too worried about this one. But there’s no such thing as zero risk.” When asked if it’s possible to cut those branches, he shakes his head. “Not if it’s an oak, and you want to look after it.” On that point, we reassure him: it’s one of our priorities.
Each side of our plot faces its own specific issues. The north side is the one directly facing Émilie’s house, our neighbour; it is also the side where we had to sacrifice a bit of land by creating a right of way, ensuring that the owner of the land below would retain access to his plot with his large tractor. This was an absolute prerequisite for us to be able to create a completely unnecessary easement on his land for the septic tank outlet – something we were obliged to include in our planning application... even though we have other ideas in mind – but we’ll come back to that in another article.
The eastern side is the lowest, given its slope: the south-east corner is 13 metres lower than the north-west corner. It is the most open and unobstructed side, offering a view of a whole section of the foothills and the Pyrenees, but also revealing a huge dairy farm two or three kilometres away, of a dismal ugliness. More immediately, it is also the side facing the field where that other neighbour makes his hay, and from where the imaginary line of that other easement runs, straight towards the forest on the other side of the field. Apparently there is a stream there, which we have not yet encountered, as one has to climb over a barbed-wire fence and scramble through brambles in the middle of the woods to reach it... Clearly, this is the direction from which most of the wild animals likely to visit our garden will come, and perhaps nibble on a few chickens or vegetables, depending on their tastes. That is why we are planning to plant a defensive hedge there, but also to leave a dry hedge as a refuge for numerous birds and small mammals.
The south-facing side is the one overlooking Bernard’s plot, which is identical to ours. This is the side we’ll need to ensure remains as open as possible, so that we can enjoy maximum light and warmth in the house during winter, and in the vegetable garden in mid-season, particularly given that a new house will be built there next year. This house will probably be let out, which means our relationship with our neighbours is still uncertain.
The south-facing side is the one overlooking Bernard’s plot, which is identical to ours. This is the side we’ll need to ensure remains as open as possible, so that we can enjoy maximum light and warmth in the house during winter, and in the vegetable garden in mid-season, particularly given that a new house is being built there. This house will no doubt be let out, which means our relationship with our neighbours is still uncertain.
Finally, the west side is where the seven large oak trees stand. This is the side with the most challenges and stimulating tensions... Indeed, we are at the top of the ridge here, the only place where there are a few roughly flat areas on our land – beneath the branches of the trees. This is also where the small road runs, along the edge of the plot, just behind it: it is therefore a thoroughfare, raising the question of how to potentially shield ourselves from view. Questions regarding light and the weather also arise very strongly here. On the one hand, the oak trees create a natural barrier against the westerly wind, which is very prevalent and tends to blow strongly over Miramon, and thus they stand as a screen against the rain coming from that direction; so it seems sensible to plant a windbreak hedge behind the trees to further reinforce this function and provide greater protection for the house. Furthermore, the trees will no doubt provide much-needed shade and coolness from the summer sun during the hottest hours of the day. On the other hand, the trees will also tend to cast the house into shadow in mid-season, just when temperatures have dropped – and in winter, we’ll need to find a compromise between protecting ourselves from the wind and rain, and letting the sun through...
So this western side presents quite a challenge to explore! And of course, there remains the issue of potential storms, which could batter the oaks, causing branches to fall… or worse. How can we coexist respectfully with them, whose presence played such a big part in convincing us to settle here? How can we love and care for them, whilst bearing in mind the vagaries of an increasingly volatile and unpredictable climate?
It is to answer these questions that we call on CM, a tree climber and surgeon, who is clearly passionate about his work. “You have to be when you climb day in and day out; otherwise, you’d stop straight away.” He mentions the possibility of fitting a safety harness—a sort of safety belt—around the thickest branches of the tallest tree. He also tells us he’ll need more time to visit each one, which I imagine him doing with the deftness and attention to what lies beyond the visible of an old Chinese doctor, to better assess their state of health. “There’s plenty to do!" Does he have time over the next few weeks? “The next few weeks?! Pfff!” The usual reaction we get from the craftsmen we wish to hire for our project. We’ll probably have to wait until summer to get the assessment done.
In the meantime, we ask him to help us trim two small branches that are getting in the way of the first practical step of our work: the installation of a shipping container, scheduled for ten days later. He sends us a quote, which we accept, and he promises he’ll make time to come round.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go to plan: on the day itself, we discovered he hadn’t turned up… which left us in a bit of a pickle (as we described in another post). Later, he apologised and explained that he’d had problems with his phone. A lover of trees, yes, but perhaps a bit too scatterbrained... He did, however, come round to cut the two branches he’d promised to trim, and gave us a discount on the price.