I really should keep you updated on Bookhound's recent estate management garden adventures because he's done a magnificent job of septic tank repair that seems to have stayed magnificent. It's almost (only almost) a joy to stand next to it and hear the efficient flushing and gurgling which has replaced its rather potent and congested sludgy gulp. Meanwhile he's been working on all those little bits of landscaping too.
In my personal experience it's a dangerous combination.
A man at the controls of a digger he has hired for a week for £150, surrounded by 3/4 of an acre of God's own earth beneath him; the task it was hired for is done dusted and filled in, he's beaming with delight at having saved the £2,800 outlay quoted for repairs and there are still five days to go before the toy will be forcibly taken away.
Torrential rain being no deterrent, the upshot looked like carnage but the man's done good. In complete harmony with his garden rake, a fine tilth has been achieved out of great clods of earth and mud.
There has been much rolling and shaping and coaxing, a bit like painting a picture I suppose as the garden has slowly been restored back to something akin to its first incarnation as grass when we moved here fifteen years ago. This is the source of much mirth here.
In between, and dependent on need, it's served as a mini football pitch, a badminton court, a cycle track, a vegetable garden with greenhouse and then without greenhouse (twice) and all life has been lived out there.
The recent 'nature' garden has gone...that was an excuse for neglect that even we couldn't sustain, and it will soon be joining the rest of the mowable grass as lawn. But the butterflies are still around and enjoying the asters.
And the espaliered Cox's Orange Pippins are almost sweet enough to eat.
The shady bank which came very near to the far end of the house, and which we felt sure contributed to the damp, has been taken back several feet to allow the sun to get in and work its occasional magic.
The area around the summerhouse, now reclaimed from kayak-storage and worse, has been cleared and will sort itself out in a wildish but controllable way of its own.That eucalyptus tree incidentally hardly native, but it has been good for tree houses and swings and does offer lovely, rustling dappled shade.
Best of all every bit of rubbish that had accumulated around the garden has gone on several trips to the tip and wandering things like flowerpots safely gathered in before the frost hits them.
How exactly did we manage in the olden days, before cars and tips and black bin liners...can you imagine life without black bin liners now? Well I expect the diligent recyclers amongst you can, but I'm afraid at the first sight of rubbish gathering around the house I grab a bin liner and walk it round.
We do have the occasional bonfire because we have no neighbours, only ourselves to annoy.
But this week has seen the icing on the driveway, the new gravel chippings.
Could life get any more exciting than this?
The Booker prize going to Hilary and new gravel on the drive all in a week
It's important (to me anyway) to be able to traverse mud-free terrain from car to house. Don't ask how many tons have gone down over the years and where it disappears too is anyone's guess, beyond perhaps a six foot sub-strata of embedded gravel lying beneath perhaps. I do know a lot finds its way indoors and rattles up the hoover.
There was however a tense post weed-killer, pre- new gravel moment.
The Gamekeeper had come home with a back pack, masks and a spraying machine, did the rounds and then his parting shot...'
'Don't let the dogs walk on that until it's dry.'
'What about the cats' I said....no I shrieked in alarm.
'Oh yes, won't do them much good either.'
'But Rocky's famous' I bleated...
So I stood guard over wet weeds and sleeping cats nursing visions of them licking poisoned paws and keeling over and me having to come on here and tell you honestly how Rocky had departed this life through sheer negligence.
Rocky snored on and all was well.
I've come to the conclusion that normal gifts are a waste of time for Bookhound.
We are all agreed he is impossible to buy for, he smiles wanly at wrapped, present-sized things with ribbons.
Just hire him a digger for a week and see his face light up or buy him a new handle for his rake or do as we've done this week and buy him six tons of gravel and he's as happy as Larry (who was Larry?) and stays out of mischief for days.
Of course now there's talk about the first person to drive in with muddy wheels being hung drawn and quartered but how we avoid that heaven knows.
Give it a week and the novelty will have worn off.
In my personal experience it's a dangerous combination.
A man at the controls of a digger he has hired for a week for £150, surrounded by 3/4 of an acre of God's own earth beneath him; the task it was hired for is done dusted and filled in, he's beaming with delight at having saved the £2,800 outlay quoted for repairs and there are still five days to go before the toy will be forcibly taken away.
Torrential rain being no deterrent, the upshot looked like carnage but the man's done good. In complete harmony with his garden rake, a fine tilth has been achieved out of great clods of earth and mud.
There has been much rolling and shaping and coaxing, a bit like painting a picture I suppose as the garden has slowly been restored back to something akin to its first incarnation as grass when we moved here fifteen years ago. This is the source of much mirth here.
In between, and dependent on need, it's served as a mini football pitch, a badminton court, a cycle track, a vegetable garden with greenhouse and then without greenhouse (twice) and all life has been lived out there.
The recent 'nature' garden has gone...that was an excuse for neglect that even we couldn't sustain, and it will soon be joining the rest of the mowable grass as lawn. But the butterflies are still around and enjoying the asters.
And the espaliered Cox's Orange Pippins are almost sweet enough to eat.
The shady bank which came very near to the far end of the house, and which we felt sure contributed to the damp, has been taken back several feet to allow the sun to get in and work its occasional magic.
The area around the summerhouse, now reclaimed from kayak-storage and worse, has been cleared and will sort itself out in a wildish but controllable way of its own.That eucalyptus tree incidentally hardly native, but it has been good for tree houses and swings and does offer lovely, rustling dappled shade.
Best of all every bit of rubbish that had accumulated around the garden has gone on several trips to the tip and wandering things like flowerpots safely gathered in before the frost hits them.
How exactly did we manage in the olden days, before cars and tips and black bin liners...can you imagine life without black bin liners now? Well I expect the diligent recyclers amongst you can, but I'm afraid at the first sight of rubbish gathering around the house I grab a bin liner and walk it round.
We do have the occasional bonfire because we have no neighbours, only ourselves to annoy.
But this week has seen the icing on the driveway, the new gravel chippings.
Could life get any more exciting than this?
The Booker prize going to Hilary and new gravel on the drive all in a week
It's important (to me anyway) to be able to traverse mud-free terrain from car to house. Don't ask how many tons have gone down over the years and where it disappears too is anyone's guess, beyond perhaps a six foot sub-strata of embedded gravel lying beneath perhaps. I do know a lot finds its way indoors and rattles up the hoover.
There was however a tense post weed-killer, pre- new gravel moment.
The Gamekeeper had come home with a back pack, masks and a spraying machine, did the rounds and then his parting shot...'
'Don't let the dogs walk on that until it's dry.'
'What about the cats' I said....no I shrieked in alarm.
'Oh yes, won't do them much good either.'
'But Rocky's famous' I bleated...
So I stood guard over wet weeds and sleeping cats nursing visions of them licking poisoned paws and keeling over and me having to come on here and tell you honestly how Rocky had departed this life through sheer negligence.
Rocky snored on and all was well.
I've come to the conclusion that normal gifts are a waste of time for Bookhound.
We are all agreed he is impossible to buy for, he smiles wanly at wrapped, present-sized things with ribbons.
Just hire him a digger for a week and see his face light up or buy him a new handle for his rake or do as we've done this week and buy him six tons of gravel and he's as happy as Larry (who was Larry?) and stays out of mischief for days.
Of course now there's talk about the first person to drive in with muddy wheels being hung drawn and quartered but how we avoid that heaven knows.
Give it a week and the novelty will have worn off.
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