I wish I wasn’t so fussy about soil. About the aesthetics of bare earth.
But the lower terrace after the septic tank work has bothered me all summer.
It’s the wrong soil. Brought in by the lovely team who were trying to ‘make good’ after the destruction of their work.
It’s yellow. Soil mixed with river sand if you ask me.
Irksome. It’s not just that during a drought the grass seed didn’t germinate. But that it’s a yellowish hue that made me hiss a bit. And mutter. And wish I could do something about it.
Cue a huge pile of topsoil dug out for the foundations of our next building work not a hundred metres away.
I was clambering over it all the time I was cutting down the battered plum tree branches and rescuing the olive trees.
Hmmm. I wonder if the builders would notice if I nicked a bit?
Cue two days of very, very busy furtive wheelbarrow work with a bucket and a trowel.
I can only do half loads at a time owing to the weight. But I had time.
Two days in which to steal from the building site before the stone masons came and inspected and told me that they needed the whole lot for their work.
Only an obsessive gardener would countenance this sort of toil. It’s just a light topdressing, but it works
And the sun shone, and it wasn’t too far to travel between topsoil and terrace. And look at the results.
Deeply, deeply pleasing.
I have my mountain terrace back.
And now all I need to do is wait for spring and resow the entire area with more grass seed. And hope the ants don’t do as I did and nick it all before the seed can germinate and cover the rest of the area.