The major structural engineering works in the garden this spring have revolved around defence – or perhaps I should pronounce that DE-fence. You see we are facing a crisis, an invasion from migrants. Migrant cats. They are sweeping across our borders destroying our bird life and threatening our gardens with their illegal activities, cat nip dealing and violence. We must repel this invasion.
OK, not an invasion and not a national crisis. And no drug trafficking, but why let the truth get in the way of policy-making? And I guess cats have rights too. And while they are not actually destroying all the bird life they’re probably taking the occasional tit. But what these cats are doing is crapping in my well-tended veg patch. I say cats – it seems to be just the one, with a particularly poor diet, judging by the liquid nature of its deposits. But it leads to one of two consequences. Either I clear it up before tending the garden or, if I am too slow, I have to watch as my Labrador does her morning “poo patrol” and eats whatever feline faeces she can find.
I am not sure which I find more disgusting.
So the solution, to borrow an idea from across the Pond, was to BUILD A WALL. But not just one wall – more like a series of barricades which could be built without recourse to Congress or any other budgetary authorities. So, using some spare chicken wire, canes and fruit netting we have sectioned off the veg beds with instantaneous results: no more cat poo. The dog is disappointed – she still patrols the garden every morning on the off-chance, which reassures me that the cats have not been back. And the netting might even have kept the sparrows from eating the young pea plants too, so it’s a win-win.
Plenty of peas and no poos: success. We’re making the Garden Great Again. Now, how do we get the cats to pay for the wall…
The major event this Easter has been the return of Chickens to the estate. After a few site meetings Jim had delivered the posts and wire and between us we had dug three-quarters of the way around the area to be able to dig the fence in. The gate was a slight issue as we needed to make one, so Jim and I suggested to the OM that he might like to dust off his old woodworking skills and throw one together. He demurred although he did have what Jim and I both agreed was a good idea to hang the non-existent door from the end of the cow stall instead of securing a square post. TOM decided to advise me on the size of drill bits, wood and other practical matters to aid me in my task. “They are in the top shed” he told me. Such instructions of little use. He might as well have said they were on Mars. I would have had more chance of locating them in outer space than in the heaps of old tools, wood and machinery in his shed.
“Do you think you can find them for me?” I asked. He decided he could – and duly did – thus saving me a frustrating search and giving him another thirty yards of exercise. A win-win, by my reckoning.
So by the Friday afternoon we had a wall plate and three trenches dug when Jim arrived for the main construction session. Jim and I work well together. He has the experience and the right sanguine attitude towards the OM who pays him for his labour, and I am happy to agree with whatever Jim says and to offer what muscle I can muster.
Posts in
It started reasonably well with the acquisition of tools: metal spike and sledgehammer to the fore. The OM was keen to tell us that the sledgehammer had been acquired from Yeovilton Air Base in 1962/3 when he was clearing the runway of ice (my first winter was a hard one I am told). A legendary piece of equipment which promptly broke as we hammered in the first post. We resumed 10 minutes later with Jim’s tools and cracked on with the job in hand. Incredibly we managed to get posts and netting up and a strand of supporting wire too. With only two lengths of wire to go, Jim left me to sort it the next morning but with a warning that it would be a two person job as the wire could get “twisted as fuck” if you did not feed it out carefully. I took this as a serious piece of advice. Jim does not often use strong language in my experience.
Gate – constructed by the author – not his father
It only took an hour or two with Verity the next morning to make the run secure. Which was just as well, as I had arranged to collect the hens that afternoon. This is the third time that we have sourced chickens from Dorset Hens and they never fail to deliver. They have a great range of hybrids of various hues, and although after a busy Easter there was not a great choice, we took an eclectic foursome of a Mottled Leghorn, an Amber Star, a Bova Nera and a Colombian Blacktail. They were in a crate waiting for us when we arrived and the owner grabbed them two at a time to put them in the back of our car (in the dog crate). As she took the Leghorn she muttered a warning under her breath that this was “a little bastard”. Or at least that was what I thought I heard. She actually said “this is the fastest”. Ok – got ya.
VB and I returned with our clucking cargo and started to unload them. When the OM came up the yard I assumed it was to take a look at the new arrivals, but it turned out the more pressing matter for him was to print off a boarding pass for his impending flight to Newcastle – in three weeks’ time. I politely suggested I would take a look later. For the moment I wanted to get my hens settled in….
And so the hens are in. And they have not hung about, with one already laying (three in total so far) and we have also managed to discourage either dog from getting too interested in the chickens too. If Ella gets the wrong side of the fence, it will be carnage. The last time we had hens she was only a puppy but managed to get into the old run, to which I was alerted when I heard one hen shouting “f-koff!, f-koff!” Ella had the bird in her mouth, but fortunately did not deliver the coup de gras on that occasion. I don’t think she would be quite so gentle now…
Getting the right support
New arrivals
Relaxed Lab and Hens
Fudge remaining uninterested
Hens in front of newly painted house (thanks to Claire)
Plans for the spring include getting more hens. This time we will house them at the end of the cow stall, in an area of the garden which has for some time been fairly derelict. It is closer to the house so might reduce the rate of fox-related fatalities. It is also the part of the garden that is most difficult to fence and from which we are convinced Fudge makes her escape, so the idea of fencing it properly and using it constructively seems a laudable one.
But as with any capital project there are the usual rituals to follow.
First we check that it is do-able, which is achieved with some independent advice from Jim. We get chatting as he is around doing some treatment on the tennis court.
Next we need to get the Old Man to agree with the idea. Which means we need to get him to think that it is his idea. I vague word about hens, locations and fencing, a week’s break, and hey presto, he comes back talking a great project. He demands our presence by the walnut tree and tells us what we should to. He even offers to pay Jim to put the fencing up. Result.
So the first weekend of half term I had a site meeting with Jim and agreed that I would clear the undergrowth and then get the fence posts and netting to get the job done. He chuckled at how much I was going to have to clear, which is always worrying. I value Jim’s opinion and work ethic and if he is thinking something will require large amounts of hard labour, I wonder if I am being naïve.
The hens will be moving into the Wheelbarrow graveyard
As it turns out it does not take long to clear the detritus from the area. But there is the small issue of the ash tree which has grown up through an old gate. The Old Man actually suggested I use the chain saw (I had forgotten we had one) and offers me a lesson on how to operate it. Normally the idea of a lesson in anything from TOM would have me running a mile, but I have to concur with his view that “you don’t have minoraccidents with chain saws”. So the stark choice between a long-winded exposition on chainsaw safety from the Old Man, or no lesson followed swiftly by an amputation-inducing accident is a tricky one to weigh up. But after due consideration I go for the safety option. To my surprise the lesson is short and sweet and I make short sweet work of a juvenile elder that needed felling.
But the ash tree remained – as did The Old Man.
Tree with gate attached
“You’ll need a rope for that as it will hit the walnut tree or else land on the cow stall” was the wise man’s words. I nodded sagely and grunted to concur. Some things are not worth arguing – despite the fact the tree was clearly leaning away from the cow stall and was equally clearly not tall enough to reach the walnut.
Fortunately that day he was out to lunch (no – literally out to lunch) so as soon as he had gone I carefully revved up the chainsaw and started on the ash tree. Of course I was running a risk here. I was sawing a tree that apparently had the capacity to bring down airliners if attacked at the wrong angle, and if I did suffer a serious accident there would be no one on hand to say “I told you so” as they drove me to hospital. But I forged ahead in swashbuckling style.
I sawed a wedge in the trunk to encourage it to fall away from buildings then attacked it from the back. The tree duly fell – away from the cow stall and short of the walnut tree – and just as I stood back to admire my technical acuity, the base of the trunk slipped and landed squarely on my foot. It happened almost in slow motion. The pain was intense, but at least it was not witnessed by anyone with more experience and advice to give.
My foot was fine – but the next near accident could have been worse.
Stand Clear
I needed to release the metal gate through which, over the years, the tree had grown and expanded until it was wedged tightly between the bars. A simple slice with the chainsaw ought to suffice to take off the top of the elongated stump. What I had not realised was the tension in the trunk. As the saw liberated the gate, the trunk was catapulted down like a hammer by the force of the bars on the gate. Fortunately I had maintained good posture (unusual for me) and was not hunched over the chainsaw at the time – otherwise it could have been lights out or at the very least we would be talking “concussion protocols” before I am allowed back to work.
So it all went swimmingly. I have not told TOM that I have cleared the Ash Tree – he will have to take note himself. I now need to get down to Mole Valley Farmers to get the fencing. Then it’ll be more Easter hens.
Last night I dreamt I woke to the sound of cows again. It was a dream that has haunted me recently and it is a signifier of more than just a mad fear of bovine TB.
In November when delinquent Friesians from the next door field trampled the Brussels sprout patch in our garden I was more amused than dismayed. Yes, we had lost the best crop of Brussels for many years even before we had eaten any (my father insists on not picking them till after the first frost) but the whole incident was somewhat comical in that the damage had been done under my old man’s bedroom window and he had not heard a thing.
But he was upset. And only now am I beginning to grasp his depression at the destruction wrought by the hungry heifers as, in the fallout from the incident, we have agreed to take over a large part of the gardening duties from my father.
My parents had always been fiercely proud of their garden – and with some justification. They had started it from not much more than a ploughed field and turned it into a well cultivated acre of land with herbaceous borders, trees and, most importantly, a fine vegetable patch. All four sons had been required to do some digging, planting or harvesting, under a certain level of supervision, but it had never really left me with any feeling of satisfaction.
Until now.
Renting the converted barn off my father, we have a vested interest in the state of the garden, and since my mother died five years ago it has become increasingly difficult for him to cope. But it is even more of a struggle for him to let go. Any work in the garden is closely monitored from the control centre next door and is more than likely being done in the wrong way, with the wrong tools and at the wrong time of year. I am approaching fifty (from the right direction, if one asks) but still get myself into adolescent sulks as I try to start the strimmer and hear the inevitable “is there enough petrol in that?” or the catch-all offer of “a word of advice”. I am unable to attempt the simplest tasks without the intervention and supervision of my father and it drives me mad. But I say nothing. Why? Because I think that if I do I will upset him. So I take the angst while he takes control.
But the cow debacle has given us a way in. We have offered (nay – demanded)to actually take over part of the veg patch and that is what I am going to work on this summer – and perhaps even write about. And it might just be the means I need to finally become a mature independent adult. I have already made one step when I was given some advice by the Old Man on how to put chicken wire around the patch to ensure that the mower could still get around. I finally felt compelled to tell him to back off and leave me to do it myself.
“I know how to do this thanks. But if I want advice I will ask. I would rather try things out my way and if I fail, so be it. I would rather fail and learn from my mistakes than constantly have you telling me what do”. There….I said it. And felt so much better for it.
