A couple of weeks, a couple of hernias and a broken back later, the sow's ear of a garden was at least heading in the right direction. Which is to say, towards silk purse territory. Or, to stretch the fabric metaphor just a tad further, which is to say, too far, the garden was now cut from a marginally different cloth.
For one thing, the steps up to the terraces had reappeared:
The terrace on the second level, my planned vegie garden, had also re-emerged:
And the top terrace, while far from pristine, at least revealed the medieval wall that was our back fence:
Pain? Agony? You betcha.
But all in a good cause.
And the top terrace, while far from pristine, at least revealed the medieval wall that was our back fence:
Pain? Agony? You betcha.
6 comments:
Excuse me! Who sacrificed painting time to pull all the nasty little weeds out from the cracks in the steps and who swept up all the dirt so others couldn't grow?
Beats me. Who?
Well, I thought I'd come, cap-in-hand, to say I may have been a tad harsh in the matter of the poppy....and I find I've landed smack! in the middle of what Mr. Plod calls 'a domestic'
I do know the feeling of satisfaction which alleviates all pain. Good start, chaps!
To be fair to her, she does drag herself out of her studio for about ten seconds every three or four weeks to wander around plucking at the occasional weed.
Looking good! Great bones----the garden, I mean. And Graeme, too, for all I know.
Once, Laura. Once upon a time.
Now they just ache.
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