In the past couple of days we've cut down the bulk of the long grass. It seems sad to do it now, when there are still late flowers blooming like the field scabious, and insects buzzing about, but it has to be cut at some point, otherwise it would revert over a few years to scrub. Even after one season's growth there are young oaks, ash and cotoneasters springing up, plus the odd bramble that has gained a toehold. The Systems Administrator pushes the power scythe, and I follow behind and around with the rake, hauling what has been cut into piles, and so revealing the Mohican stripes and lumps that have escaped the first pass of the scythe.
The scythe is a great tool. Petrol driven, it consists of two horizontal sets of blades that snicker across each other, and the machine is self-propelling, otherwise the SA would die of exhaustion before we were a quarter of the way through. Even with the motor pushing it forward it is hard work to steer and control, particularly when it hits an ant hill. It's been a good year for ants. No other insects as far as I can see, just ants. Cutting the lower lawn was harder work this year than usual, because the wet weather has made the grass grow more than ever before, sprouting into great rank tufts that jammed the blades of the scythe periodically.
We rescued two large and fine toads from the bottom lawn in the back garden, and I found a third making its way to safety. There were a couple of little dark scuttling things but I didn't manage to see clearly what they were. Mice or voles, probably. We have never yet caught a toad in the mower. They seem to have the knack of pressing themselves down into the grass and letting the blades pass overhead, though it must be a horrible experience for them, with all the noise. They are very strong, for such small animals, and don't freeze on contact with humans, unlike newts. When you hold one cupped between your palms to move it you can feel it pushing against you, trying to break free.
I cut most of the bank along the side of the daffodil lawn with shears before lunch. It is one of those jobs where after ten minutes you seem to have done pathetically little, and start to feel tired and discouraged, and then after an hour you have done a good amount, and can see that the task is achievable. Half way along the bank I heard a strange hissing noise, like a water leak. After a while my brain cranked into gear that this was not irrigation coming on in the neighbouring field, and that the last time I heard that noise it turned out to be a bumblebee nest. I backed off for a moment and looked carefully, and sure enough there were small wild bees flying around one area of moss. Bumbles are generally peaceful animals and will not attack you, but if you plonk yourself right on top of their nest and brandish a pair of shears by the entrance they will sting, and it is excruciatingly painful. I identified the patch of moss which, if I touched it, started the hissing noise again, and worked my way carefully past that section.
The meadow was comparatively easy to scythe, because the soil is so light in that part of the garden that even with all the rain, the grass has not grown so thick. Two thirds of the way through raking, the blister on the palm of my right hand at the base of my fourth finger became too large to ignore any more, and I had to stop. Blisters there are not so bad, since that part of your skin is designed for hard wear, forms callouses easily and heals quickly. The key with raking (I said this last year but it's important) is not to rest the rake on the soft skin between your thumb and index finger. It's easily done without thinking, and you will lift a piece of skin in no time at all, which will hurt a lot, and take ages to recover, during which period you will be going around with a series of disgusting pieces of elastoplast on your hand, which get wet whenever you wash.
It's good to have that done, before any more of the grass topples over and lodges close to the ground, at which point the scythe has little chance with it. There have been years when the daffodil lawn and even the meadow haven't been cut until after Christmas, when there is a sudden panic because the first leaves of bulbs are emerging. There is still a lot of finishing off to do by hand, around the edges, and tidying up the tufts that the scythe never caught, but the bulk of it is done. It filled a great many trailer loads, carting all of it off to the bonfire site. The next challenge for the SA will be to try and burn it, mixing it with whatever woody prunings we have to get some sort of a blaze going. I need to cut the grass near the beehives, but that will have to wait for a day when it is cooler, so that the bees aren't as active as they are today, and I won't faint with the effort and the heat, wearing my bee suit over my gardening clothes.
The cut areas look starkly brown and barren at first, but will green up soon enough, especially once we get some rain. It's a look I associate with early autumn, and reminds me of our first ever visit to Great Dixter, in mid September (ten years ago), when the meadows had just been cut. While sad to see the scabious go, it is satisfying to get one of the most tangled and jungly parts of the garden back under control, and feel that a step has been taken towards the stripped down, pared back neatness of winter.
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