Brushwood Cutting

It has taken me several weeks to gain the composure to compose this post.  Let me explain:

In the snowy weather with winds from the east and frozen ground our local powers that be sent out the hedge cutting machine to flail the boundaries of our park.  Such was the power of this mechanical beast that chips of wood landed on our back lawn or bounced against our patio windows.  My husband went out to look, sympathizing with the operative who had been given this task.  I stayed inside. 

A couple of days later in a slight thaw I went out to inspect the damage.  The person who operated the hedge cutting machine was driven by the need to complete the job.  In turn, pressure was transmitted to them from a supervisor with a tasks list, and to the supervisor, I surmise, by some person in a warm office with cuts to enforce and budgets to prune.

After my first 'recce' I decided to go back and drag all the broken off branches down to ground level, but not on to the public footpath, beloved of dog walkers, in case I landed myself in trouble.  I managed the length of the park from the entrance to our back 'wildlife area' a matter of some yards.  I then invited my husband to help. 

At that point I had the crazy idea of taking the secateurs and loppers to cleanly prune all the poor shrubs whose branches had been shredded along one side of the whole park.   My husband quickly dissuaded me pointing out that this was not my responsibility and that the people operating the bark chipping machine would shortly deal with the broken branches.  We compromised on the area behind our back garden only.

Now all the branches are on the ground, including those that had been cut through only partially where my husband had to use a saw.  The bark chippers have not arrived.  

In times past peasant farmers would coppice hazel for their tall straight poles; this renewable resource was part of their livelihood.  Now we just permit big machines to flail clumsily and inaccurately at them from a distance.  

I was angry but now I am resigned.  The tangle of elder and hazel branches I chopped and dragged is no longer blocking my view of the park.  It will eventually rot back into the ground.  There is still enough space in our hedge for the birds. I am sad this is all we can do.

 

Plastic Propagation Stations

Definition:a semi-humorous description.  An environmentally responsible place to sow seed under shelter, which is what we have been doing this week.  In a line under our patio windows is a row of cleaned 1 Kg (that is what it says) yogurt pots.  One pot sits inside the other and the bottom pot has a layer of pebbles.  The upper pot is filled with seed compost and my birthday present of windowsill herbs on seed mats (I think that is probably a trademarked description).  Each circular paper mat has been covered with a sifting of compost and watered.  We are now waiting for them to germinate.

In our greenhouse we have sown broad beans in plastic pots recycled from earlier seasons and my husband has covered them with the remainder of a rigid plastic sheet from our neighbours' conservatory roof replacement.

The point of all this sowing and covering is to bring a little extra warmth to germinating seeds and salads.  British Summer Time is approaching towards the end of March.  I could do with a little extra heat myself.

March breathing like lion's snowy breath

Today almost all the birds are sheltering from the strong north-easterly winds.  At noon, when the sun shone in intermissions between snow flurries and the temperature rose to freezing point, a solitary pigeon positioned itself on the fence and a few seagulls soared above the playing fields.  Blackbirds, sparrows and wrens were hidden.  The only movement, fleetingly mistaken, was from fallen leaves. The garden birds may not have noticed the newly-filled feeder, or the strong winds hinder flight. The only one who came earlier to feed, but not to drink was a small brown and green bird dipping in and out of the hedge.  It could have been either a marsh tit, or possibly a migratory goldcrest.

We are not going out if we can avoid it and are grateful for central heating, cups of tea and double glazing.  Through the back patio windows we watch the daylight hours pass.  If I were a painter or photographer I would take the sun from its rising through the birch trees to its setting in the west with the full moon glimpsed through the branches.  I would make a print from the tracks of the blackbird in the snow, a figure of eight loop delicate as decoration on fine cloth or china.  Being deficient in these crafts, I vow to add knitting to contemplation and fill my basket with useful squares.