Call me hunter, bramble hunter
It’s not quite crawling on elbows and knees, knife in mouth, camouflage clothing, mad bandana and sneaking up on the brambles. But they are my quarry and they are all about me.
The annoying thing is you just can’t see them.
These are some of the lower terraces I have been battling this past week. Luckily I can mow half of them. It sure beats killing myself with the strimmer.
But the terraces are long and full of beasts. Brambles, bracken, broom. Anything else with a b? Baby oak seedlings. Bad grasses. Boring bits.
I trudge. I empty the grass catcher at the end of each hundred metre length. I admire my progress.
And then I just have to turn my head and see the edges – brambles galore in those stone walls. Sigh.
The mower will soon be put away for the season and the strimmer is going to have to come out again. Strimmer season never ends.