With all the thrilling stuff we’ve been getting up to since moving here, there’s one remainder of Corner Cottage’s year hosting tenants that’s been weighing on my mind. There’s still lots to be done around the place, from fixing the finials to painting the portico, but all the while, silently increasing their sinister hold on our pied-a-terre are thousands and thousands of weeds. Yes, the garden is choked with the things, and they’ve shown absolutely no sign of going away of their own volition.
So yesterday, after planting a few more seedlings in our second veggie bed, I set to rooting out the damn things. I didn’t mean to – it wasn’t the plan when I stepped out of the front door, but once I’d started, something took hold and there was no stopping. It’s in the nature of the weeds themselves, I reckon. They are creatures of obsession.
It all started with the little creepy-crawly ones that had popped up along the edge of the studio where the new bed was to go. There’s base of nice gravel there, an extension of the driveway we never use, and tendrils of this vegetable were emerging from the interstices between the gravel bits.
But get this – when you give them a pull, these crafty tendrils don’t resist much – they just yield with a faint pop, a centimetre from your fingers, leaving the root firmly embedded in the ground. You just know that in ten minutes the godforsaken herb will be shooting new stalks into the light of day, undeterred by their recent violent amputation. It’s clearly a cunning Darwinian ploy developed over the millennia to ensure the survival of the species.
This led to a new approach: escalation! Vigorous concentrated digging in pursuit of the fat taproot lurking deep in the dark earth. And they do go deep, these roots – but they can be induced to come out with a firm, sustained tug, the tension increasing (but not too much) until they finally relinquish their grasp on the soil and emerge, pale and horrible, into the light.
I’ll confess, despite strong instincts to the contrary, that these tenacious foes had become fully anthropomorphised and I found myself muttering terrible curses – impugning their morals, casting aspersions on their parenthood, pointing out their obvious character flaws, and damning both forebears and offspring for all eternity. Verbal invective may be the refuge of those of limited mental capacity, but oh, it feels good. And it serves as fuel for the flagging spirit, believe me.
The problem was that defeating one such villain only served to emphasise how very, very many more there were. During the year of neglect, they had moved in, lock stock and barrel; as the drought had hammered the wimpish imported flora we’d cultivated, the vigorous native weeds had elbowed onto their home turf and, in a way, eaten their lunch.
Our lawn, on examination, is really just a farrago of different invaders – dandelions, something that looks like tiny marigold leaves, others frothing across the sward like miniature clover, and some like grass, just more vigorous and ropy. I went at them with the big gardening fork, going for the root-ball; I went down on hands and knees and hacked at them with the small garden fork; I raked aside the autumn leaves to expose the full extent of their metastasis and had at them with the spade. And all the time, the verbal tirade – after all, plants respond to uplifting conversation and classical music don’t they?
It was a kind of cold, focused killing frenzy. It was very personal: these uninvited guests had taken up residence in my earth, were consuming my water and earthy nutrients – and choking the flora we’d sought to cultivate in the creation of our little Eden. They had enthusiastically embraced the drip-line we installed at the height of the drought, supping on the precious water meant for pretty flowers and verdant lawn, and their forceful roots were battening on our fertiliser and mulch.
Yes, there was a savage satisfaction in going after the interlopers and foiling their plans; but at the end of a couple of hours and many bucketloads of defeated foliage, I had to concede that a modicum of knowledge would help my cause. There were several large, waxy-leaved shrubs which I couldn’t tell for sure were naughty or nice; in some places, so many weeds had been exterminated that the earth was muddy and bare. It seemed wise to consider a smarter approach – perhaps the judicious application of weed killer? Also, being able to identify friend from foe seemed wise.
Despite a large wheelie bin filled to the brim with limp defeated vegetation, the surface has just been scratched. It’s clearly a longer-term game. A frenzied attack might yield temporary results, but they’re inadequate and those pesky roots are definitely still there, inexorably inching their way toward the surface again.
It’s not over, that’s for sure – but surely brains, science and persistence will win out in the long run? Be in no doubt: battle has been joined. In the words of Arnie, I’ll be back – and adopting a Terminator-like approach to rooting out this plague upon our precious corner of the earth.
