Weeding between the lines
THERE is an old farming adage, ‘in July they die’. The reference is to perennial weeds and the theory that, cut at their zenith, before the seeds disperse, their rootstock is exhausted and the weeds perish. So, in the heat of the afternoon, I hitch the Fleming rotary topper to the rear of the Ferguson TE20—the ‘little grey Fergie’ of countryside legend—and putter down along the lane to Long Paddock, a field exactly described by its name. Perhaps a prettier, more poetic occupation than farming would have aestheticised the portion of the land as ‘the perfumed and secluded place’.
