Have come inside for lunch and just plonked down in front of the tv. Mesmerised by the history of the Ryder cup of all things. I suspect it was the sight of all those luscious perfect greens. I could do with a couple of groundsmen right now. This taming of the terraces is exhausting. Especially as the strimmer wont start.
Yee of little faith. After lunch it started first go. Guess it just needed a rest like me. And now five hours later I can happily say that the terraces look a whole lot cleaner. Must try and keep up with the strimming and mowing. Those brambles were threatening to take over some terraces entirely. If we can mow more often they will come less often. What a profound discovery.
Those of you on warfarin look away now. The technique is grim. There’s nothing to do but wade into the bramble patch and hope that you come away with trousers, shirt, skin, and strimmer intact. Well and truly pronged by many a wayward branch en route to a lovely lawn.
We need to find a better term for gardening. I picture gardening as deadheading roses and mooching about flower beds. This sort of work is gardening with mighty muscle. Hauling machines up and down slopes, striving not to plummet over the edge as you get a good run on the grass with the heavy mowing machine. Strimming (such a light, skittish word) which doesn’t quite cover the thwacking and heaving and twisting and hacking. (You can tell I’ve had an evening beer.)
Well that’s the thought. And I was starting to Have Thoughts about composting these mighty brambles. Must create a pile somewhere to put this compost to use.