OK, so I am never going to be the world's most prolific blogger. I thought I was going great guns right up until December when the world turned upside down (you probably noticed) and other things forced themselves upon my attention. This state of affairs, combined with rain, hail, snow, more rain, more hail and, oh yes, more snow not only drained me of all desire to write but there was nothing to write about. A daily blog reading 'too wet, too cold, too depressing to step outside' being an unlikely way of inspiring and exciting my readers, I just didn't bother....
However, released from other time consuming activities I was suddenly blessed with three days of good weather! No really, would I lie to you? Of course other people in the area were equally blessed, but this was MY good weather and I was going to bloody well enjoy it. Donning overalls, 8 pairs of socks and the wellies I was out in the garden on day one by 9am and surveyed the destruction brought about by what is apparently being referred to (at least on Country File) as the eighteen month winter. (They obviously forgot about the four days in July when my grandchildren played at the weir every day, we picnicked on the river bank and I swam in the Exe - for about 25 seconds, but I digress.)
The smallholding course season will start very soon, I already have bookings and I am standing in the 'garden' looking at about an acre of mud, collapsed fences, pile of unspread muck and a polytunnel which has taken on a suspiciously green tinge. Things must be done, accomplishments accomplished, tasks seen too and renovations put in train.
I started with what we will call the goat shed hedge. The term hedge in this instance is meant merely to indicate a certain linearity running in parallel with the goat shed and a tendency towards green bushiness in the summer. Beyond that its resemblance to the usually understood definition of a hedge falters, nay fails.
As I contemplated this monstrosity the bulb maniac from next door appeared, clutching what looked suspiciously like another bag of bulbs in one hand and the lead of a small, wet and exhausted dog. For a few seconds I imagined him trying to train her to actually plant the bulbs for him, but dismissed the idea immediately and got one with the more important task of borrowing things. The secret of holding on by your finger tips in smallholding is to never buy anything that you can borrow off your more sensible, finiancially astute and well equipped friends. What I wanted from the sainted Keith on this occasion were his loppers. Keith, who is the very sole of generosity and not at all competitive in the 'chopping bits off things' arena handed over the loppers without demur and I was off!
In the normal run of things having a bit of a go at a hedge, even such a sad effort as my own, requires walking across to the blighted thing and getting going with the old loppers and secateurs. Fairly straightforward. But this is me, my hedge and my smallholding so what are the chances it was ever going to be simple. As stated my hedge runs parallel with the goat shed, but the goat shed is on a sort of terrace. In front of the shed is a 'path' on the other side of which there is a fence. Beyond the fence is about 3 feet of steeply sloping ground to which the 'hedge' clings like grim death and beyond that is a further drop of between five and two feet, depending where you happen to be.
I spent the next two hours hacking and lopping and snipping at a variety of bushes including elder, dog rose and remarkably, escallonia. I know it was escallonia because there were three of four tiny, tendril like branches with brave little leaves clinging to them. The rest of it was three inch thick trunk, knarled and knotted and apparently devoid of life. I didn't so much prune it as decapitate it, tough love being the only option that presented itself.
Other people don't have to tie themselves to a fence in order to prevent themselves from plunging to their deaths while hedge trimming. Another thing other people don't have to do is spend hours removing great lengths of pig and chicken wire from the inner recesses of their hedges, yes the pig wire fiend had struck again. I don't know which of the previous owners of this property had such an obessession with pig wire which is probably just as well. In this instance the wire was threaded through the bushes as in the manner of fairy lights in the trees lining the Champs Elysees, but not as attractive. The wire was not secured to any posts or at either end, it just sort of meandered along pointlessly and flopped about in an aimless manner. Not one length of pig wire of course, but two, and reinforced with an equally ineffectual chicken wire, the latter having in many places been encompassed within the wood of the bushes themselves. How many people have to prune their hedges with wire cutters for heaven's sake!
By the end of the day I was gazing proudly on a weaving line of stumps, a tangle of wire and a 7 ft high pile of cuttings which I can't burn because, guess what, today it has rained and hailed and snowed. Which is why I am sitting here writing a blog......
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