I keep forgetting that work around a big garden is never done. Much as I’d like to pretend that we’re keeping some borders wild and free (folks in New Galloway are very keen on the new ‘ark‘ concept of gardening, in which Acts of Restorative Kindness are brought to bear on domestic gardens that have suffered from being too tidy) . . . much as I may flatter myself that we’re doing just that in our garden, the truth is that I’m incorrigibly lazy and if the weeds must grow, then well, let ’em!
But we got back home yesterday afternoon and the day was so soft and warm, the clippers so inviting, that I somehow motivated straight into my gardening overalls and bent to the task, a kind of humble contrition for my failings. I do love hand clipping, considering that in the past I’ve wrestled with strimmers and hedge trimmers and snorting petrol motors. There’s something really quite uplifting about quietly proceeding, on hands and knees, along a border to hand chop the weeds down. No carbon footprint, better exercise, and a closer job in which I can manage to leave a few specimen plants I might have demolished in earlier times.
Now all I have to do is collect the cuttings and replenish our compost heap, so that this section, which is ours, not the small wild creatures’ — thank you very much — will be neat and tidy and welcoming to visitors. And then, if the weather stays kind, we can have a delightful picnic and enjoy the view and conversation, unmolested by encroaching nettles and dominating docks.
Another kind of bliss ahead then. But today I’m sure I can find another useful job or two to do. Our beloved neighbour mentions that there are tall docks and wanton thistles in their way along their field border that could do with some attention, and I might want to brmmm my little tractor to help out. Perhaps I’ve done enough penitence in our garden patch; today I shall run like a Deere!
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