I hereby declare that we are at war. War with the weeds. They started it. Whilst I was lolloping around like a walrus (pregnant) and duty bound to this helpless new creature (The Little Fulla) the weeds got ugly. They infiltrated from the front, the back and the sides: strong, rampant country weeds.
The chickens helped me fight the weeds in and around the vege garden, but they can only do so much. The orchard has a tall force of weeds all through it and the compost heaps were getting smothered by the sneaky, creeping blighters. Weeds from the dandelion family (I think they invited their whole family) have shot up like giants and the stinky Geranium robertianum, also known as Herb Robert or Stinking Bob, has reached world record proportions I’m sure.
I resorted to attacking some of the weeds in the orchard with hedge clippers. A bit desperate, I know, but there was nothing else for it. I pulled out some of the broadleaf weeds with my hands but all that was tiring so I’m leaving the chickens in charge of the attack on that front.
The compost area was getting overrun by scrambling fumitory (Fumaria muralis) and cleavers (Galium aparine) amongst other things. I have hauled them out in great swathes. I still need to remove the pallet and various plants there so I can suss out the siting of a wooden three-bin compost system. That is an exciting prospect. I won’t show you my weed rubbish pile; it’s like something out of our collective nightmares.
On Saturday I was pulling and digging out giant weeds from the front garden so The Husband could mow properly. The Husband turned up and proceeded to join the war, which was rather nice, that is, until he broke something. He was attempting to dig a big clump of non-lawn grass out. I told him he would need a spade for the mass of roots that it had. He used my trowel. He broke my trowel. My only trowel. Planting is going to be a little more difficult before I can get a new trowel. It’s going to be big spade holes or small dibber holes. Goodbye trusty trowel…