I HAVE an addiction. I scythe grass. Every year, I scrabble around for a bit of meadow that is, putatively, ‘too steep’ for the tractor-towed mower, where the corners are a ‘bit tight’, and only scything by hand will do.
This year, my eyes narrowed on the end of the orchard, awaiting planting-up with fruit trees in the autumn. A quarter of an acre. A pathetic fix. It’s something. I need to hear the swish of the blade through grass, sniff the honeyed scent of it all—clover, vernal, sorrel—and feast my eyes on the gorgeousness of full-grown grass. This will do.
Small can be beautiful. That little plot is a mini flowery mead, Pollocked with the red, white and blue of summer blooms. The air is dense with butterflies and bees, the stems of the glistening grass—waist-high!— run with rove beetles and wolf spiders and interesting insecty things.
A meadow pipit nests there. I have waited frustrated for her three fat little offspring to leave the family den. They did so on Monday. Today is Wednesday. I gave the titlarks their chance. Now, at last, is my time to mow.
My scythe is the grim-reaper sort, although made of lightweight tubular metal, rather than traditional ash wood. The peasantry of Olde England had musculature the gym loads at David Lloyds would swoon for.
There is a certain amount of rigmarole: attaching the blade to the snath, checking the hafting angle... but the terminology is a compensation, full and satisfying as it rolls around the mouth, like Kentish ale or Welsh farmhouse cheese.
This story is from the June 24, 2020 edition of Country Life UK.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the June 24, 2020 edition of Country Life UK.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Kitchen garden cook - Apples
'Sweet and crisp, apples are the epitome of autumn flavour'
The original Mr Rochester
Three classic houses in North Yorkshire have come to the market; the owner of one inspired Charlotte Brontë to write Jane Eyre
Get it write
Desks, once akin to instruments of torture for scribes, have become cherished repositories of memories and secrets. Matthew Dennison charts their evolution
'Sloes hath ben my food'
A possible paint for the Picts and a definite culprit in tea fraud, the cheek-suckingly sour sloe's spiritual home is indisputably in gin, says John Wright
Souvenirs of greatness
FOR many years, some large boxes have been stored and forgotten in the dark recesses of the garage. Unpacked last week, the contents turned out to be pots: some, perhaps, nearing a century old—dense terracotta, of interesting provenance.
Plants for plants' sake
The garden at Hergest Croft, Herefordshire The home of Edward Banks The Banks family is synonymous with an extraordinary collection of trees and shrubs, many of which are presents from distinguished friends, garnered over two centuries. Be prepared to be amazed, says Charles Quest-Ritson
Capturing the castle
Seventy years after Christian Dior’s last fashion show in Scotland, the brand returned under creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri for a celebratory event honouring local craftsmanship, the beauty of the land and the Auld Alliance, explains Kim Parker
Nature's own cathedral
Our tallest native tree 'most lovely of all', the stately beech creates a shaded environment that few plants can survive. John Lewis-Stempel ventures into the enchanted woods
All that money could buy
A new book explores the lost riches of London's grand houses. Its author, Steven Brindle, looks at the residences of plutocrats built by the nouveaux riches of the late-Victorian and Edwardian ages
In with the old
Diamonds are meant to sparkle in candlelight, but many now gather dust in jewellery boxes. To wear them today, we may need to reimagine them, as Hetty Lintell discovers with her grandmother's jewellery
