A secret world of life and death hidden in the grass Grass now demands attention in ways we truly couldn’t foresee
LAST week, the saint who mows our grass every fortnight came a day early to avoid the forecasted rain. When he’d finished transforming an Afghan hound into a poodle, he reckoned it would only need a couple more cuts this year. His saying that made me pause. I felt a shiver, as when you hear the first geese flying south for winter, or see apples growing rosy and heavy on the boughs. It is early warning that the season is turning, and in only a few weeks’ time all remnants of this sodden summer will have vanished.
We are unusual around here in not possessing a lawnmower. Most people take care of their own swards, keeping them impressively trim and smooth. There are even rumours about someone spotted using nail scissors. If I were to take scissors to our patch I’d be there until doomsday. Long before the job was finished the grass would have grown over my head.
At least half of our so-called lawn is given over to weeds. Some are of the low-growing matting variety, others burst into flower, like buttercups and vetch. Left to its own devices the place would quickly revert to the meadow it longs to become. Yet while it would be fashionable and ecologically responsible to let it go wild, I dislike the idea of wading through wet savannah to pick the rhubarb or talk to the sheep. It might be alright if the rest of the garden was well-kempt and an expanse of meadow looked like a conscious environmental decision, but for the moment a billowy sea of wildflowers and seedheads would merely reinforce the fact that out back is a work in progress, and still in its infancy.
We briefly wondered if a robot cutter was the answer, like the one that’s become a tourist attraction on Edinburgh’s Mound. The thought of it nibbling around the trees like a supercharged rabbit was appealing until I learned that not only are they inimical to hedgehogs, which simply curl up in the face of danger – potentially fatal when dealing with these machines – but they also kill bees and butterflies which, on turf like ours, have a field day.
Before coming to Hoolet, I’d never given grass much thought. Now I realise that, like so many aspects of living in the country, it demands attention in ways you couldn’t foresee. Ours, left in the very capable hands of the saint, is not an issue. The first time he tackled the job, he had to use a scythe and strimmer before the machine could be let loose on it. Now, not only does he do the hard work, but he carts off the cuttings. For those who are self-sufficient, however, it can become a headache. During lockdown there were countless stories of folk across the UK who were so desperate to get rid of their garden waste they tipped it into country lay-bys and fields. Around here, most people are so savvy they wouldn’t dream of doing this. The danger to farm animals, horses especially, is extreme.
Mention grass cutting and some will immediately issue a warning, just in case you don’t know (and I didn’t). When horses eat clippings, which often become compacted, they can choke. Cut grass needs so little chewing they can eat a large quantity quickly, which reaches their stomach undigested and in some cases already fermenting. This causes stomach problems so severe it can kill them.
Also deadly are the weeds chopped among the grass, some of which are poisonous to animals, as are the chemicals used on the lawn. Here endeth the public health warning.
By the time recycling centres reopened, some gardens were more bin-bag than flowerbed. It was a dreary few months for those unable to store their detritus out of sight. Even now, getting rid of the stuff is no simple matter. One of our friends regularly
At the height of the pandemic I mentioned that the council had stopped mowing the village green and its surrounding swards because their men were too busy digging graves
tramps across the field dragging a dumpy bag for lawn-less neighbours. They gratefully add it to their compost, which is of such high quality it partly explains why their garden is one of the loveliest around. Cleverly terraced, it is planted with a profusion of fruit and ornamental trees, shrubs, flowers and vegetables.
It is also wholly unturfed, allowing them to devote themselves to their plants, rather than waste time on an endlessly needy waving carpet.
On our way to the supermarket, we drive past a large house, far upcountry, whose lawn is as green as a David Hockney painting and as pest-free as Wimbledon’s Centre Court. Last week, Alan saw the owner gliding over it at the wheel of a sit-on mower. It was more Sherman tank than garden tool, and its driver had such a formidable demeanour he wondered if she was faintly disappointed that she was not
heading to the battlefront. At the height of the pandemic I mentioned that the council had stopped mowing the village green and its surrounding swards because their men were too busy digging graves.
As the grass grew deep enough to hide all but the heads of the gleeful toddlers who have made it their own, a group of Hooleteers took matters into their own hands. They set to on the same principle as that which propelled 87-year-old Sir Boyd Tunnock, the biscuit tycoon, to tidy up a park in Uddingston recently, in other words solving the problem themselves.
A gardener on a four-wheel mower trimmed it back while another attacked with a strimmer. On each occasion a few of us followed in their wake with rakes, gathering sack upon sack of cuttings. We left them propped against the trees, like massive toadstool rings, and the council collected them within a day or two.
I’d like to say that Hoolet’s collective effort was reminiscent of barn-raising in the American backwoods, but that would be going a little too far. It did, however, show the interest people take in keeping the place looking smart. In one of many cheering signs that lockdown has eased, the man from the council garden department returned one morning.
That was something of a red-letter day, especially as he took great care to mow around rather than over the mini wigwam that the children had built with sticks.