the grass is riz

I am beginning to remember that I am not entirely keen on nature. I like to look at it and occasionally walk through it, but by and large, it is best left to the BBC and whichever of the Attenboroughs does that sort of thing.

We are approaching the first spring for nearly 30 years where I have lived in a home with a garden. Last time I was in this position, it was Dad’s responsibility and he would stoically go out and mow the front and back lawns every few weeks and, once the weeds had made the effort worthwhile, he would dig out the flower beds, turn the soil over and grow a second crop. One year he or Mum planted pansies out front and ever after, the bloody things would sprout at irregular intervals in surprising places, but never again in the flower beds.

Another year, because where we lived in Telford the ground was almost entirely clay, Dad bought a truck full of top soil. It took me, him and my best mate, Phil an entire day to get it from the street where the truck driver had dumped it with cheerful disdain for the rest of the crescent’s right of access, to the front garden . It took another day to transfer about two-thirds of it around the back of the house. He’d bought rather too much, his calculations on his trusty slide rule having let him down for once. This one purchasing decision raised the entire front and back gardens by six inches and we had to line them with breeze blocks to keep the soil from leeching onto the paths. It looked very nice when it was finished, though. For the first time in 20 years, the front lawn was grass only, not just tall moss. The flowers he put in grew and bloomed and all was lovely. Then in the autumn the poppies bloomed and it became a bone of contention as to whether he had accidentally bought the contents of a Flanders trench or not. I think that after that brief horticultural triumph, the poppies broke Dad’s gardening spirit and despite having lived in Telford for all his life (within two miles of the place he was born), he agreed to up sticks and move to Shrewsbury, which at least had sandy, loamy soil.

By this time, I was living in London and gardens were, by and large, either big, fenced-off areas between posh town houses, where rich people took their trophy dogs to poo and which appear in movies like Notting Hill as part of the British Film Industry’s propaganda campaign to America, or suburban offerings that varied from small jungles to concrete parking places depending upon the proclivities of the home owner. If I wanted greenery, it was the royal or municipal parks and small corporate gardens outside office blocks, and London is awash with both, so my minimal need for nature was amply catered for, with all the gruesome stuff taken care of by elderly municipal employees called Bert, or young apprentices called Errol.

I could and did go years measuring the seasons mainly by whether or not I was wearing an overcoat or a tee-shirt when out and about.

I noticed nature more when I moved to Whetstone, but I didn’t need to do anything to it.

Even moving to the Gin Palace and acquiring a garden wasn’t too traumatic. It was summer and in full bloom. Now and again we would hack back the underbrush and from time to time add the occasional plant, but that was largely it apart from harvesting tomatoes and wondering precisely how much lettuce it is possible for two people to eat without growing fur and whiskers.

Then came the autumn and the digging back. Not too much hassle as Furtle Ma is a keen gardener and took delight in employing a scorched earth policy to our little patch. My main input was to get involved with the rebuilding of the retaining wall with Furtle Pa when it transpired that I have a previously undiscovered talent for splitting blocks in a straight line. Did, build, re-fill, done. Then winter and no more garden for us.

But spring approaches and winter, whilst still having a contract for a further month is already planning its trip south, so nature is beginning to encroach again.

I have already had the joy or removing a dead rat from the front yard.

Yesterday, Furtle nearly crippled herself with a combination of digging and sweeping, while I ended up with lesser aches and pains from stretching into unnatural postures to deadhead the monster buddleia and then shift bricks from A to B to C so I could erect our portable ‘greenhouse’.

It all looks tidier, but there now comes more digging and planting and tending. There is to be a pond, so that will need digging. My ambitions extend as far as standing between Furtle Ma and the ivy on the fence, to defend the latter from the former and planting a climbing rose or two where I can see them from my chair in the conservatory in the summer. I also have a hankering to grow some taters. Beyond that, though, I shall be glad when it’s hit its green jungle phase and going out in the garden entails carrying a G&T and deciding where best to sit for maximum enjoyment.

I wish I could afford to employ me a Bert and/or Errol. I am not entirely keen on nature.

the grass is riz

I am beginning to remember that I am not entirely keen on nature. I like to look at it and occasionally walk through it, but by and large, it is best left to the BBC and whichever of the Attenboroughs does that sort of thing.

We are approaching the first spring for nearly 30 years where I have lived in a home with a garden. Last time I was in this position, it was Dad’s responsibility and he would stoically go out and mow the front and back lawns every few weeks and, once the weeds had made the effort worthwhile, he would dig out the flower beds, turn the soil over and grow a second crop. One year he or Mum planted pansies out front and ever after, the bloody things would sprout at irregular intervals in surprising places, but never again in the flower beds.

Another year, because where we lived in Telford the ground was almost entirely clay, Dad bought a truck full of top soil. It took me, him and my best mate, Phil an entire day to get it from the street where the truck driver had dumped it with cheerful disdain for the rest of the crescent’s right of access, to the front garden . It took another day to transfer about two-thirds of it around the back of the house. He’d bought rather too much, his calculations on his trusty slide rule having let him down for once. This one purchasing decision raised the entire front and back gardens by six inches and we had to line them with breeze blocks to keep the soil from leeching onto the paths. It looked very nice when it was finished, though. For the first time in 20 years, the front lawn was grass only, not just tall moss. The flowers he put in grew and bloomed and all was lovely. Then in the autumn the poppies bloomed and it became a bone of contention as to whether he had accidentally bought the contents of a Flanders trench or not. I think that after that brief horticultural triumph, the poppies broke Dad’s gardening spirit and despite having lived in Telford for all his life (within two miles of the place he was born), he agreed to up sticks and move to Shrewsbury, which at least had sandy, loamy soil.

By this time, I was living in London and gardens were, by and large, either big, fenced-off areas between posh town houses, where rich people took their trophy dogs to poo and which appear in movies like Notting Hill as part of the British Film Industry’s propaganda campaign to America, or suburban offerings that varied from small jungles to concrete parking places depending upon the proclivities of the home owner. If I wanted greenery, it was the royal or municipal parks and small corporate gardens outside office blocks, and London is awash with both, so my minimal need for nature was amply catered for, with all the gruesome stuff taken care of by elderly municipal employees called Bert, or young apprentices called Errol.

I could and did go years measuring the seasons mainly by whether or not I was wearing an overcoat or a tee-shirt when out and about.

I noticed nature more when I moved to Whetstone, but I didn’t need to do anything to it.

Even moving to the Gin Palace and acquiring a garden wasn’t too traumatic. It was summer and in full bloom. Now and again we would hack back the underbrush and from time to time add the occasional plant, but that was largely it apart from harvesting tomatoes and wondering precisely how much lettuce it is possible for two people to eat without growing fur and whiskers.

Then came the autumn and the digging back. Not too much hassle as Furtle Ma is a keen gardener and took delight in employing a scorched earth policy to our little patch. My main input was to get involved with the rebuilding of the retaining wall with Furtle Pa when it transpired that I have a previously undiscovered talent for splitting blocks in a straight line. Did, build, re-fill, done. Then winter and no more garden for us.

But spring approaches and winter, whilst still having a contract for a further month is already planning its trip south, so nature is beginning to encroach again.

I have already had the joy or removing a dead rat from the front yard.

Yesterday, Furtle nearly crippled herself with a combination of digging and sweeping, while I ended up with lesser aches and pains from stretching into unnatural postures to deadhead the monster buddleia and then shift bricks from A to B to C so I could erect our portable ‘greenhouse’.

It all looks tidier, but there now comes more digging and planting and tending. There is to be a pond, so that will need digging. My ambitions extend as far as standing between Furtle Ma and the ivy on the fence, to defend the latter from the former and planting a climbing rose or two where I can see them from my chair in the conservatory in the summer. I also have a hankering to grow some taters. Beyond that, though, I shall be glad when it’s hit its green jungle phase and going out in the garden entails carrying a G&T and deciding where best to sit for maximum enjoyment.

I wish I could afford to employ me a Bert and/or Errol. I am not entirely keen on nature.