In the deep mud winter
As time goes on here, I am learning more than I really want to about slopes and water tables in an area largely built on clay. Tonight, I have feet of clay, as a result of which my wellies weigh not much short of a ton each.
There I was yesterday, astride the Jolly Green Giant (see above), taking advantage of some clear weather and drier soil for the cutting of grass. Things were going really rather well until, without warning, we ventured into some sort of time warp involving Flanders in the early Spring of 1915. Fleerrmp went the engine. Weeruuurrgggheer went the wheels….round and round, spinning like a circle in a spiral and a wheel within a wheel, never ending or beginning etc etc.
36 hours later – as you may be able to spot from the odd protuberances here and there in the piccie above – I’ve tried everything from roof tiles, flat iron bars and tongue-n-groove wood to provide some grip for the tyres of the tractor mower. Result: unhappiness.
Worse than unhappiness in fact: with every day that it rains (as they say here) “Comme une vache qui pisse”, the Green Machine sinks further into the mud.
After dealing with this emergency yesterday, I had to put every article of clothing that had been involved into the highest temperature, most ecologically nasty programme in my washing machine. The outcome of that is good in parts: I’ve suddenly discovered that my ski jacket was once red, but the green socks I was wearing appear to be involved in a Vulcan mind meld with it. They’re also half the size they were when I last saw them.
What is to be done? I don’t know, but I’m beginning to think that Lauren the farmer’s Big League tractor and a line of stout rope are the only answers.
The Deep mud winter here has been extraordinarily mild so far, but that’s a major part of the problem. The main drive up to the house having been underwater for a week now, on clearer days it has been mercifully easy to spade up the slurry, find the stone underneath, and then rake it about a bit in the hope of finding some friction for the tyres on the Peugeot. But when the monsoons recur, I’m reduced to digging up the gravel at the back of house, plonking it into a wheelbarrow, and then bunging the contents onto the previously cleared mud-slide below. While this sounds like progress, I am here to tell you that it doesn’t look like it.
Had he been given access to the internet, I’m sure Scott would’ve sent the odd self-pitying missive like this one. The difference a century makes, however, is that while the great explorer suffered from everything solidifying to the detriment of low technology, my problem is the liquefying effect upon high technology. My experiences in 2014 are not the stuff from which noble death is fashioned; more exactly, they result in words under the breath that are far from noble.
The Slog 