Keep off my Astroturf
I can’t remember who once quipped that a lawn ‘is nature under totalitarian rule’, but they weren’t wrong. A personal obsession with making sure that an even spread of perfectly groomed green turf can be admired from the patio doors throughout the four seasons is a particularly painful affliction.
Ronald Reagan, for instance, insisted that he mowed his own lawn; considering you can land a helicopter on the one at the White House, his horticultural devotion must have taken up most of his time in office. Britt Ekland was another turf fanatic. She once admitted to spending untold hours on her ride-on mower, ruthlessly starting again if a single blade appeared out of place.
At Rock House there simply isn’t room for a ride-on mower. Nor is there currently a safe enough electricity supply to fuel even the simplest hover. There is, however, a rubble-strewn mud patch that looks like it was subjected to a scorched-earth policy.
I am not a natural gardener, unlike my friend Sara Ingrams, a woman with the word imprinted into her DNA. She landscapes like an artist, the colour palettes perfectly mixed and the edges effortlessly blended. Her mother, Annie Soudain, is a member of the celebrated Rye Society of Artists – she portrays heavenly pictures of gardens (often with dogs) that have the capacity to make the viewer believe that there is another, more beautiful, world out there.
After the mini-digger left last week, Sara asked me what ‘my vision’ was. The truth is, my vision has been ruined by TV makeover programmes. In half an hour a desert is transformed into Great Dixter. Not for them the years of toil and soil turnover, or battles with beetles with unpronounceable names. Flowers are virtually spraypainted on, their drooping heads starched up with hairspray – Elnett, apparently.
My own solution is equally radical; Astroturf. Yes, dear reader, I am going fake. And it seems I am not on my own. First invented in 1965, fake lawns are now the ‘on trend’ choice for those with children, cats and dogs.
According to manufacturers like Forever Green Lawns, fake grass provides liberation from the tyranny of mowing. Its unnatural composition will never let you down with a bald patch. And it is stain resistant – even to the markings of the most determined old ginger Tom – good news for the one who seems to have taken up residence recently. There is a very slim chance that a determined mutt might chew the edges, but nothing is guaranteed and surely it has to be better than a turf war…
Next week: Loo Loo…
Ronald Reagan, for instance, insisted that he mowed his own lawn; considering you can land a helicopter on the one at the White House, his horticultural devotion must have taken up most of his time in office. Britt Ekland was another turf fanatic. She once admitted to spending untold hours on her ride-on mower, ruthlessly starting again if a single blade appeared out of place.
I am not a natural gardener, unlike my friend Sara Ingrams, a woman with the word imprinted into her DNA. She landscapes like an artist, the colour palettes perfectly mixed and the edges effortlessly blended. Her mother, Annie Soudain, is a member of the celebrated Rye Society of Artists – she portrays heavenly pictures of gardens (often with dogs) that have the capacity to make the viewer believe that there is another, more beautiful, world out there.
After the mini-digger left last week, Sara asked me what ‘my vision’ was. The truth is, my vision has been ruined by TV makeover programmes. In half an hour a desert is transformed into Great Dixter. Not for them the years of toil and soil turnover, or battles with beetles with unpronounceable names. Flowers are virtually spraypainted on, their drooping heads starched up with hairspray – Elnett, apparently.
My own solution is equally radical; Astroturf. Yes, dear reader, I am going fake. And it seems I am not on my own. First invented in 1965, fake lawns are now the ‘on trend’ choice for those with children, cats and dogs.
According to manufacturers like Forever Green Lawns, fake grass provides liberation from the tyranny of mowing. Its unnatural composition will never let you down with a bald patch. And it is stain resistant – even to the markings of the most determined old ginger Tom – good news for the one who seems to have taken up residence recently. There is a very slim chance that a determined mutt might chew the edges, but nothing is guaranteed and surely it has to be better than a turf war…
Next week: Loo Loo…