I mean strimming the terraces and trying to stop the bracken in their tracks.
I started on the steep wide bowl of the lower terrace where the bracken is marching steadily towards the rest of the farm.
That was fun and easy. And I made my way gingerly down to the even lower terraces towards the vineyard.
In my mind I have strimmed the vineyard and it is a neat and tidy delight to work in. In reality, I kept catching it out of the corner of my eye as I worked down yet another small but long patch of grass and baby bracken.
The vineyard needs a lot of careful work and I had to come up for lunch and a painkiller before I plod back down.
I am trying to think whether it is because the strimmer harness was invented for men and it’s just the wrong shape for me; but frankly I think it is just the result of wielding a heavy machine on one side of the body for hours on end.
At least I earned by cup of tea and too many biscuits. And a chat with Artur.
I dont mind too much about longish grass. But the whole area is peppered with brambles and bracken just bursting into life.
Pause. I think I’ve written that before. Sorry. Bracken on the brain.
Stimmed, trimmed; bracken thwacked, brambles sliced, grass reduced and all manner of vegetable matter reduced to a green mulch.
It took hours. Mainly because I kept getting the strimmer blade caught in the fallen wires of the broken fence posts.
And I had to go carefully around the vines themselves.
I was muttering darkly when I made it to the far end rows. I swear, this vineyard is going to get one more year to prove its productivity and then I will rip them all out and plant fruit trees.
The vineyard has been warned.