Sometimes you have one of those kitchen tools that eventually gets relegated to the garden. I had such a paring knife which was truly pants in the kitchen but had its moment to shine in the garden. It was my weeder between the pavings extraordinaire! Then I moved house three times in the past year and my beloved weeder has been lost down some imaginary rabbit hole. High and low I have rummaged amongst the pots and boxes but to no avail.
I have been studying one of my holy books. The Complete Gardener by Monty Don and I came across his recommendation to get me one of these here kirpis. Looking it up online revealed it to be the mother of all weeders. Could this be even better than my long lost knife?
Indeed it be! A hook for getting right in there… a serrated blade for decapitating the most determined of weeds…. a hoeing blade for scything off all in its prime. If Lara Croft took up horticulture she would be packing two of these spinning them wildly through the jungle.
Not really before, more during.
After… nice job super kirpi.
All this plus you get to feel a bit good about yourself as they are traditional tools made in India (and they are clearly hand made from sustainable and recycled materials) by the organic trust.
Kirpis rule. Go on, you know you want to.
The fickle British weather. It just can’t make its mind up today so I have plopped myself at the desk to jot a bit down. Yesterday, however, was stunning so as per the English gardener’s won’t we sweltered under the heat to make hay while the sun shone. Fear not dear reader, I wore a hat!
Down the bottom of the flower garden near Witchy Woods ‘stuff’ had been growng merrily undisturbed by us. Evil ‘stuff’. What were we thinking?! In leaving this patch alone for the past few weeks a cursed jungle had developed. Bindweed was binding, nettles were barging and brambles were scrambling but worse of all we had cultivated our very own crop of Hogweed. Or was it Cow Parsley? Or was it Hemlock? Blimey, it’s a horror movie in the making out there. Mr Trug and I politely argued the identification of said evilness but whatever it was I wasn’t going in there. I’d seen Youtube and google images of the ‘years of scarring’ left behind by the dreaded Hogweed so I wasn’t going near the stuff.
That said I was more than happy to direct Mr Trug to ‘get stuck in’ and he duly did. Naturally I directed procedings with a few, ‘Well done hon, good job’ to keep him at it until all the evilness was scrunched up in the wheelbarrow. He took it carefully, down the garden path to the compost, like he was transporting a nuclear war head yet to be deactivated. Mission Impossible music running in my head throughout the whole thing… mission accomplished!
Hogweed (et al) be gone!