Wednesday, 30 April 2008
One of the most gorgeous aspects of this time of year, in my opinion, is the spontaneous and sporadic displays of wild flowers bursting forth. I adore the way they riot together, poppies and wild grasses especially and I spent a careful hour yesterday in the garden only taking out the real rogues such as tough old dandelions. I made those into a hearty nourishing soup (obviously) but I'm completely passionate about keeping gardens natural for nature. I hate prissy and fussy well ordered manicured spaces. I deplore controlled neatness, and laurel hedges ? burn them all.
Which brings me onto the lone soul who spent the best part of the day last weekend strimming the tree lined avenue into the village, razing all the wild flowers which I had photographed. Their pretty heads were severed in a split second. Why ? Is there something about strimming that I'm missing the point completely. Is it the monotonous action from side to side, is it the thick leather strap that holds the high pitched whining instrument to you ? please please tell me what the point is when all you are doing is destroying the natural fauna of the countryside.
To top it all the water bill has just landed, plop, onto my lap. Except its more a ruddy big whoosh, a tidal wave even. His Lordship has calculated that it is the equivalent to the swimming pool being refilled 15 times. It can't have been the highly complex sprinkling system he set up for me which snaked its way lovingly around my wild poppies and varied grasses at the front of the house which I don't need anymore since my lovely neighbour took it upon himself to 'weed' for me. No, I'm consoling myself with the fact that there must be some terrible mistake.
I'm beginning to understand why people strim for hours on end or put their Chateau's up for Sale.
'Everythings for sale' as His Lordship would sniff. He has to have the final word.