Mowing the Lawn

There’s something very therapeutic about mowing the lawn at this time of year, not least in the knowledge that you shouldn’t have to be doing it for too much longer.  The sun, although as bright as ever, has lost its fiercest heat; the days are shortening perceptibly, the mower’s basket is less full.  Even the ants have given up creating bare patches for now.

My lawns are not huge: well within the range of the mower’s cable.  They are far from flat, but unlike last year, they are at least green.  They are certainly no bowling green.  They host various bouts of running, tumbling, football and cricket.  The bounce is, at best, variable.  It would leave Joe Root¹ staring at the sky, having vainly chased another one rising sharply just wide of off: it would leave Jordan Pickford² cursing his luck as he fished another one out of the net.  But we manage ok, the grandkids and me.  Lord knows, we even manage a bit of golf – although with very limited success, when we discover that the hole is full of clothes dryer instead of flag.  I must admit that the combination of eighteen inch plastic putter, lightweight plastic ball, uneven surface and grass that is at least two inches longer than regulation does little to help.  I would claim to be the world’s worst golfer, were it not for my granddaughter who, tired of constantly missing the ball, gradually takes to thrashing the plants in a manner that I do not think would be considered at all sporting at the R&A.

The mowing is not a long job – although on a good day I can make it so – and I can sense that even my tiny electric mower finishes it with a wheeze of ‘Is that it?  Is that all you’ve got?’  Well, yes, it is.  Mind you, it’s alright for you little Bosch, you are blithely unaware of how scruffy a front hedge appears alongside a neatly cut lawn.  My wife is not, and I am quickly apprised of the situation. 

My electric hedge trimmers add a suitable level of jeopardy, if not actual danger, to the morning.  When they were younger, they may well have been capable of excising an errant finger here and there, of chopping through an injudiciously placed cable; now, they would merely give either a nasty nag, but an unwelcome one none-the-less. Unfortunately I do not have the intellect to buy common-sense, and we remain uneasy bedfellows, electrical equipment and I.  We are all much happier when anything with an external power supply is safely stowed away in the shed.  Not quite so therapeutic is the actual process of ‘stowing’.  There is nothing in my shed that does not strive to injure me in some way or another.  Like Mr Magoo striding purposefully towards an upturned rake, I approach confidently, but there is inevitable harm awaiting.  If I do not get punctured by some unseen implement, I get stung by a belligerent house-guest, or receive an eyeful of some noxious something-or-another that I had completely forgotten ever storing there.  We have a very traditional love/hate relationship, the shed and I – although from my side it is all hate.

Still, that’s not the worst of it.  ‘As you’re out there,’ says the voice from within, ‘the gutter’s leaking.’  My relationship with ladders is even more problematic than my relationship with all things electrical and pointy.  I have never had problems with walking underneath them, it is the standing on top of the bloody things that bothers me.  (On a scale of 1-10, where 1 = becalmed and 10 = an autumn day on Neptune, how much wind does there have to be to make you feel unsafe on a ladder?  Answer, 0.)  Anyway, I did it.  Did I mention that I had to rest the ladder on the garage roof, having climbed up there via a step ladder?  Still, not quite so far to fall.  I didn’t, by the way, fall off that is.  I cleared the gutter without mishap; got myself and the ladder off the garage roof without incident and stored the step ladder back in the shed completely without injury.  Until, that it, I stubbed my toe on the lawnmower…

¹England cricket captain – widely regarded as one of the best bats in the world until, like many before him, the precise moment at which he was made captain, at which point, the wheels fell off.

²As I write, England goalkeeper, although that may change.  Eccentric, like most goalkeepers, Jordan has elevated the state into full-on barking at the moon.

The Loneliness of a Mottled Green Lawn Owner

chafers under lawn

We are a green oasis in a land of shingle.

To the front of our house is a small lawn. It is the first thing I see when I open the curtains in the morning. It is, I think, probably essential to my well-being. To the back we have a slightly larger lawn which the grandchildren play on. I do not require either of them to be flat or weed-free. I do not require a predictable bounce for semi-bald tennis ball or an undeviated path for bowl or jack. I do not require them to be in the kind of condition that compels me to place ‘Do not walk on…’ notices all around them. I require them only to be green (probably the least you can ask of a lawn) and slightly softer than concrete for falling on. Now here is where the problems start.

Last year the entire village where we live was hit by chafers. These little grubs live under your lawn, munching on the roots, until they metamorphose into a shiny backed beetle, dig their way out and fly off to mate and eventually infest some other poor bugger’s lawn. Now, the lawn doesn’t like having its roots chopped off at the… well, root and responds by dying. Johnny blackbird, rook and crow are no slouches at spotting the old dead lawn. They recognise that there is likely to be a plethora of sizeable snacks under there, and they start tugging at the turf which, being deficient in the root department, lifts like a carpet. You go to work in the morning with a nice brown lawn and return in the evening to the Somme. Of course there is nothing to see where the birds have lifted the sods – anything that was there has been eaten – although if you listen carefully you can probably hear the gathered ranks of turdus and corvidae quietly belching in the trees. If you are anything like me and your lawn knowledge is not what it ought to be, you can’t quite comprehend what is occurring at first. The birds, naturally, are not present when you are and you can only scratch your head at the cause of the devastation. But then, eventually, you take a hold of one of the last remaining islands of withered poaceae and pull it up yourself and what you see are dozens of white grubs with brown heads and a clump of legs that you hate on sight. Suddenly you experience the kind of intense loathing for a hitherto unknown invertebrate that you have not felt since you found that your prize courgette was chock-full of piggy beetles. You know that you do not have the time to go through the full lawn and pick the little buggers out one by one, so you retreat inside and watch on gleefully as our feathered friends descend upon them en-masse and, when they are sated, you go outside and pull up another bit of benighted sod…

The problem is, there is little else to do. The RHS advised nematode treatment (note the past tense). Nematodes, should you have any desire to know, are microscopic organisms that you water into your lawn. (I should probably advise you to leave the blog here if you are eating a meal.) You then have to keep your lawn really wet because nematodes do not have widdly little legs or any other means of propulsion, they basically swim around in the water between the grains of earth searching for chafers. When they find them they slip straight in through the skin, where they start to multiply. The chafer is not keen on this and, in the fullness of time, he/she (how on earth would you know?) is even less so when it explodes and blasts a few more million nematodes into the sodden soil (I did warn you) who swim off in search of other chafers. The only trouble is, it doesn’t work. At first, everyone said that it did, but then, when it became apparent that it didn’t, they all turned away slightly and, coughing, murmured ‘Me? Never said anything of the kind. Who would ever believe that such a thing could work anyway?’ Unfortunately, by the time I had become aware of the misinformation, I had, content in the ‘knowledge’ that my microscopic assassins were hard at work, lifted my dead lawn and laid new. I could almost hear the massed pupae tucking in their serviettes.

So, the current advice is to keep the lawn well-watered and fed and hope for the best. The birds do not find it so easy to pull up dead wet grass apparently and, having hatched, the beetles are less likely to return to an abode with such a sinking damp problem. My well-watered and fed lawn is currently in a state that I would describe as pre-dead. It is not yet deceased, but I know that it is ready to cough its last at any minute. But I will not give in easily. I do not want to open my curtains to gravel. That would not be good for my soul. So I will continue to water and feed and I will keep my fingers firmly crossed and I will hope that my nematode army is just a slow starter.

And this is where we came in. There is a landscape gardener in our village. He specialises in fences and paths and, just now, he particularly specialises in ripping up lawns and replacing them with gravel. He tells me that he is doing four a week – not bad going in a village – and he has just finished the houses either side of me. In fact, we are one of six houses in a little row and the only one not to have had the lawn removed.

My problem is this: having just decided that I ought to make myself aware of what the mother chafer might look like so that if I ever see her making her way towards my lawn I can advise her of the error of her ways in no uncertain terms, I have discovered that following an infestation, homeowners often find themselves bewildered by the speed and extent of the destruction which may ensue owing to the fact that crows are accompanied to the feast by raccoons and foxes (thank you Wicki) and all I can say is that if I’m going to have a front lawn full of raccoons, I might well move anyway – preferably to somewhere with gravel…