Hitting the hay
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
