… and then there are winter JOBS. Jobs which deserve their capital letters. Jobs which you’ve probably been avoiding for several years, if you’re anything like me*.
And then one sunny day, when you don’t have a deadline for the first time in months, you suddenly find yourself down the builders’ merchants ordering three tons of gravel. Like you do.
You then get back, have an argument about the size of the order which you win by pointing out that gravel magically disappears when you start putting it down and that you have got two old paths, one new path and an area by the pigsty plus the log store / ty lawnmower to do, and then the guys delivering the gravel can’t get up the hill because someone has parked on it, and then they have to do a strange reversing manoeuvre to go the wrong way down a one-way street so they can at least see the main road they’re emerging on to, during which time the man moves the parked car, and then they get to the right spot by going round in an alternative circular route because they didn’t see the man move his car, then they have to crane three giant bags of gravel over an old stone wall, avoiding the pear tree, the greenhouse and the Hell Hound of Harlech – and then a friend calls round in the middle of all this…. that sort of day.
I’m never complaining about a deadline again.
Anyway, this is what is happening:
This is the pigsty area, complete with old feeding trough which isn’t going anywhere, coal bunker which is where I store compost, and the side, hardly ever exposed, of the extension to the pigsty itself. That’s where chopped logs live in the winter, and the lawnmower lives the rest of the year. It is, essentially, mud. As you can see, there’s baler plastic under some of the old gravel, but it’s more and more baler plastic and less and less gravel.
Both of the existing paths have huge sections which are also mud, and which have – over time – gradually slumped so that all the gravel is either at one end or strewn around the garden. So they’ve been dug out
(and, I am ashamed to say, weedkilled) and any plants moved, except for an old fern – I have billions – and a rotten stump which was previously interestingly shaped but which is now merely unpleasantly rotten. They are toast. Soggy, manky toast, but toast.
Then there’s the new path.
Well, it’s not exactly new as such. It was a path / death trap, because everyone knows that the way to create a path is to take some old roofing slates and miscellaneous rubble, stamp them into the soil, and shove some concrete in the gaps. (Removing the slates revealed one that was broken but carved, and I’m next door to a burial ground. Er…) So this now needs digging out, the edges tidying, and gravel laying.
And then you remember that your old wheelbarrow rotted through and went to the tip, and that you haven’t quite got round to replacing it because of the deadlines, and so you dash off to the farmers’ supply place, source of such delights, and they have two, both of which are broken, and so you zoom ten miles to Porthmadog and hooray, hooray, Wilkinsons have ONE left, and it’s the big one which you wanted. And then you get back and it’s dark anyway.
That sort of day.
I need some pretty flowers to remind me why I do this:
That’s better. That’s mad, mind, because these don’t usually get cracking until well into March, but I’m not quibbling. For once.
*Who knows, this year I might even paint the trellis…