Imagine this: a terrible sycamore determined on taking over your entire garden. Leaves abound, branches arranging their next fence attack. Bedford’s tree surgeons have seen it all and subsequently some. These men and women climb, trim, prune, and occasionally have heart-to–hearts with your recalcitrant trees, gently guiding them back from the brink—or, if it’s time, sending them off in elegant chainsaw requiem. More info!
People often try their hand at lumberjack games. Perhaps Aunt Dot with her “antique” saw or mate who claims to have worked for a National Trust site is involved. Usually, stories finish with a broken flowerbed, a fractured fence panel, and silent regret everywhere. Tree surgeons move like woods medics. Helmets on; ropes flying; harness buckled; they diagnose not faff. Is that fungus proliferation under way? Are those branches secure? Why in the middle of July is the willow sulking?
One spends a day on the job in part circus and half puzzle-solving. Occasionally, it’s guiding down an old cat named Marmalade, who has decided he now lives on high. Other days, one listens to tales from a maple whose trunk rings indicate it survived the Blitz. Every task is a mystery; occasionally workers find decades-old marbles or rusty old bikes buried under roots. One turned up a 1987 cricket ball. Still stuck, they swore.
The price sticker won’t start you off screaming. Not like plucking daisies is cutting trees. There is climbing, machinery, insurance, and the odd afternoon spent battling knotty timber wet in rain. But it focuses when you set safety against the cost of a destroyed greenhouse.
Identifying the actual authorities is not like searching for riches. Bedford is a chattering town; ask Pauline three houses down, she will know who’s good. Check Google’s excellent reviews or Snoop on neighborhood Facebook groups. The best ones arrive happy, provide honest rates, and sweep so elegantly you would be able to eat scones off the grass.
Therefore, avoid trusting just anyone with a ladder and a pair of gaum-fuelled gloves when your garden is showing you the old side-eye. Call the very own branch whisperers of Bedford. Trees pruned perfectly, gardens seem sharp, and—if lucky—a squirrel history or two while they are working.