Say something. Anything. It’s been ages since your last post.
Rummage in the blog post pictures folder and find something to illustrate these words.
Ah, here’s something.
The soft fruit orchard adventures version 11. Eleven years, eleven attempts to tame this weedy over the septic tank space.
This pesky patch of land.
At the bottom of the potager. In full view of just about everywhere.
I thought I had it mastered when I did the world’s thickest mulch in spring. That will do I thought. I’ve never mulched anywhere so thickly. Farewell weeds.
This shot transported me back to life before Bindweed. Liseron. I didn’t know that. It sounds rather fetching in French. But actually the bind bit is more apt. It binds to my brain. Ruining the look!
Don’t have bindweed in your garden?
Have some of mine. Here it is ruining the mulched orderly look of the soft fruit orchard all summer long.
You can weed it. Or think you are weeding it. But it just comes back. Those long white roots are deeply satisfying when you can carefully tug and come away with a long, long tendril. But who are you kidding? These roots are indestructible.
I have come to the realisation that no matter the mulch is almost one foot thick here. It won’t do.
So off it comes.
I have other plans. These shots were taken back in March if you are curious. A lovely time before the weeds appeared.
I’m not going to waste the not-good-enough mulch mind you. The orchard bank needs a thorough mulching.
And there may be traces of bindweed roots all through this sifted removed mulch. (It’s a tedious old job, believe me). But frankly, the orchard bank is similarly afflicted.
But hey, you don’t see that steep bank so much as here smack bang along the path to the lawn and the pool.
So for now I’m moving soil and mulch about. And filling bag after bag of bindweed roots. Which I diligently drove to the dechetterie (tip) last week.
And copped a party political broadcast from Paulo the waste manager (well, the only employee, so lets make him a manager) about why he is a gilet jaune protester.
It went something like this.
‘You drove here to get rid of the weeds? How law abiding of you. See, that’s the problem. You follow the rules. No more burning of weeds or mess on your farm, that’s the law. So you got in your car and drove, what? 15 kilometres, [I nod quietly in agreement but don’t staunch the flow] to dispose of your rubbish properly. But that took petrol. Which is heavily taxed. So you are being a good citizen but paying a high price! Too high a price.’
At least it took my mind off bindweed.
In all the years it is the most animated I have ever seen or heard the lovely man. Usually I just drive up, get out, we just shake hands, look up to the sky, discuss the weather, laugh at the assortment of mess in my car, empty it together into the appropriate bins, wave goodbye, and then I leave.
So I had more to think about this time. And take a bit of brain space where sorting out the soft fruit orchard tends to dominate.
I can’t solve the problem of French protests and indignation of the rural poor. But I might have one more stab at keeping the creeping bindweed at bay.
But that’s for another day.
[Sneaky teaser: It involves cutting up tarpaulins which are damaged, and huge, but didn’t go in the car to the tip.]