Weapons of Moss Destruction: Not!

Note from author: it’s happened again; I’ve been distracted by the plot, by real life and by apathy. I wrote this thirteen days ago, but it never got posted. Hope it still makes sense. Thanks for putting up with my tardiness.

It’s well into spring time now, blossom on the plum and damson trees up at the plot, the dessert pear tree that had all of the pears stolen on that point of perfect ripeness is also smothered with creamy white flowers, regularly visited by bumble bees. The last thing we need right now is a punishing frost … so, of course, that is what is being predicted by the Met. Office.

And, on BBC TV that old chestnut Gardener’s World is back to lighten up/disturb our Friday evenings (should we have pruned the apple back so harshly?). Always a harbinger of summer.

Sunny days, it seems, now stretch endlessly before us, although the air loses its warmth once the sun dips below the horizon. We have already had two fire pit evenings, down in the Dell at the bottom of the garden. Time, perhaps to dare to empty the crowded, disorganised shed, all furniture to be returned to its allotted place: on the lawn, on the patio… ?

“Hold those horses,” (a favourite phrase of my maternal grandfather). Why not, before we get all of the stuff strewn across the lawn give it a good going over, y’know: give it a first, high mow, scarify it, spike it, put some fertiliser down?

As an idea it sounded brilliant (as brilliant as any idea concerning a lawn can, but convincing enough: I hate lawns, you understand, and the fuss that is needed to maintain them; hence our part grass, mostly moss, clover and daisy expanse) but really?

Now I know that the perfect, flat, lined lawn with perfectly edged borders is the stereotypical image of an English garden, but not for me. I am not so formal, which may be why I can be mistaken for being idle.

So, out with the spring tined lawn rake, the made-for-children garden fork that we keep at home and a box of After Cut fertiliser (nothing in it to kill moss or weeds (a.k.a. wildflower species)). It’s a fairly big lawn, includes a patch that began life as a No-To-The-Mow concept, then became a wildflower patch and is now partly bark-chipped with ornamental grasses), a Beauty of Bath apple tree, the Woodland Edge with cowslips, Pasque flowers, blue bells and self-heal and is bordered by ill-defined edges. And, with that touch of laziness I can never be bothered to do more than simply follow the lawn mower over it every now and then, I believe that it is the burgeoning moss that gives it the carpet-of-green appearance. Get rid of the moss, end up with a straggly, untidy piece of ground: surely?

So I began scraping. Honestly though I have waved the rake at the lawn several times since we moved here, over thirty years ago, this is the first time the lawn has been seriously scarified. It isn’t easy work, raises a sweat and so I split the whole into three days work. Do the job properly rather than just – er – scratch the surface.

After the first day’s efforts I noticed a robin, hopping around, picking up scraps of material: moss, bits of thatch, the odd creepy crawly. It was taking the bits into a hole in the wood pile against the wall in the Dell. The place we store fuel for our fire pit … and surely enough, building a concealed nest. Robins are very imaginative when it comes to nesting. As a child I can remember one nesting in a discarded kettle, another in a paint tin without a lid at a factory where I was labouring. But this one, this year, is a bonus for me. We, hopefully have enough fuel elsewhere so can avoid disturbing this bit of the pile. And, equally hopefully the robins will not be disturbed by our using the Dell in summer evenings. There is, of course the problem of the patrolling neighbourhood cats, but who knows …?

Over the next three days my work is completed, some areas of the lawn re-seeded, with a little flower bed soil scattered on top. Most of the moss goes into the garden waste bin, to be collected by the council; but some is reserved to go into our hanging baskets. The work of the robin goes on parallel to mine: quietly, unobtrusively.

It does look satisfyingly rough – I can certainly tell where I have been – when I have completed it. So much so that I take a certain pride in it and the hard work that went into it: strange that hard work can make something look so, frankly, scruffy. But should settle down and thicken up, becoming a tidier lawn again in the next seven days or so, though it may need some additional raking. Here’s hoping.

 

Only One Way to Spell Recovery ?

I’m in the back garden today, shuffling about in what, I sincerely hope, is the aftermath of the cold/stroke ‘flu I’ve been fighting weakly against for more than six days. Eventually, as if not wanting to acknowledge a marvellous holiday is over I’ve managed to put a suitcase back into the roof: one of the two we took on our “leaf peeper” tour of New England.
While un-packing and drooling over the leaflets, maps and odds and sods I invariably collect (like some kind of demented magpie) , I came across the fridge magnet/emergency notice I was fascinated by in Vermont. They were “please take one” reminders in a tourist information office (but please do not ask which one … OK?). I made, at the time, no connection between the “unusual token/souvenir”, the weather in the North-Eastern states of the good ol’ U.S. of A. and what just happened here: the storm we have, apparently named St Jude.

On the tour bus we were regaled with stories of how the roads we were now gaily zooming along had been ripped up by floodwaters following a tornado surge and violent heavy rains some years ago. I was trying to imagine my own reaction if I had been on a coach that could, simply not get, to where the itinerary had said it would go. Contractors were still repairing roads and bridges. A large number of the “covered bridges” that this part of the world is famous for were washed away,; along, of course with entire towns, and lives. Again we passed these “ghost towns” on the sides of roads.
A couple of days ago we had national weather forecasts announcing that a heavy storm would be hitting the south west of great Britain on Sunday night/Monday morning. It was going to pass through – winds of up to 90 miles per hour – and into the North Sea, via all points in between, including the Midlands. With some trepidation (greenhouses, trees and roof tiles) we awaited the drama that would keep us awake. In fact in this part of the world there was very little. Strong winds stirred the trees, the Lombardy poplars at the edge of the field bent about a bit. Meanwhile, in the south, trees were, predictably up-rooted, traffic seriously disrupted … and, at the last count four people last their lives.
Not anywhere near as whole sale as weather storms can be “across the pond”, but certainly worthy of note and families are affected by single deaths, not mass counts. My heart is with those who have lost someone in this storm – of course.
But this morning. I am recovering. The country is recovering. There is the snarl and whine of a chainsaw somewhere in the distance and closer at hand a bumble bee is pushing hard into the core of a nasturtium seeking sustenance; and I am doing something I always regarded as totally twee and, frankly un-necessary; Raking the leaves from the lawn. The lawn needs mowing. The compost heap up at the plot will benefit from the cuttings – and the leaf pile will be added to; eventually becoming useful soil conditioner.
Rowan berries are spread across the green blanket of the lawn, the paths, the still-outside garden furniture. Whether the berries have been blown down or fell as a result of blackbird and song thrush activity is a different question. A few windfall Conference pears and the last of the apples are strewn about. But there always seem to be a few more apples: how does that work?
Closer to the house sparrows are the beneficiaries of the storm. They leap and squabble over scraps of dust and moss on the patio, characteristically ebullient.
The sun is low in the sky, its light is welcome but weak … and maybe just a little guilty.