(700 words) Who would’ve thought it? On the old wooden noticeboard, behind mouldy glass, it said that the poet Tennyson used to sit under the tree, reading his immortal words to the, doubtless bemused, villagers. What tree? I wondered. Then I noticed that the verdant mass of foliage and ivy behind the notice board hid an ancient hollow trunk, all that remained of a no doubt impressive oak, that could indeed have housed Tennyson and not a few peasants below its enormous branches and splendid canopy, albeit two hundred years earlier.
