Mowing the Meadow.

A few weeks ago I put out an email requesting help for mowing this patch of wild flower meadow that we had planted at least seven years ago. I can date it that far back because I have a photograph taken by the local news-paper which includes Logan, one of our favourite dogs who died that long ago. He was the sort of dog that you could never forget. It was impossible to imagine any breed of dog that was not lurking somewhere in the undergrowth that was his ancestry. We had rescued him from the local boarding kennels where he had been abandoned and he quickly learned to open the garden gate so that he could wander off down the road to the local pub, at least we knew where to find him – rummaging in the waste bins at the back. However, once he realized that his new lodgings provided regular meals, he became more conventional in his habits.
 
Back to the main plot, I had received no offers of help by the time I left to leave so assumed that it was going to be a lonely day. I do like a pleasant surprise and, when I arrived there were half a dozen helpers ready and willing. The result was that after a couple of hours, including a tea break, the job was done. Although there were a few who had not perfected the art and were wildly swinging their scythes through fresh air, I can report that no limbs needed glueing back in place, although it was noted that someone had thoughtfully brought a first aid kit with them - I’m sure a triangular bandage or sticking plaster would have been very useful in an emergency.