This is my round robin, an ode to the garden tools that saved and almost killed me

A Christmas anti - gift guide

It's coming to the end of the garden season and I'm tired. I'm one pile of leaves away from giving up and crawling into the middle of them to hibernate, pulling a brown crispy blanket over my head and waiting for mushrooms to grow under my dirty fingernails. I want to surrender to Winter and the snow.

Our obsession with picking up leaves needs to change, brush them off the paths and into borders if you must. Lay an empty green bin on the ground and use the open lid as a corral for the errant ochre, caramel, russet fallen and muddy brown. Herd them in and trap them, then release them to the wild where they can do their job, feeding next year’s plants. Unfortunately, it’s my job to pick them up for a living.

This year I've weeded, pulled bits of grass out of paving slabs, pruned roses, bled down my arms and excised thorns and splinters from my fingers, I’ve split my trousers twice and worn my knees out weeding. I’ve even held my zip up with a piece of garden wire when the button dropped off. Gardens demand a price and aren't keen on assembling themselves to our fashioned image. They like to put up a fight, they don’t wish to be pruned or neat and leaves fall where they like.

This is my round robin, an ode to the garden tools that saved and almost killed me. A Christmas anti - gift guide if you will.

So many lawns mowed this year, each lawnmower with a unique character trait. The green petrol monster who managed to eat through grass thigh deep but won't turn 90 degrees without written notice. Thirsty for petrol but light on oil, it won't start on an angle and only after exactly five pumps of the primer. Needs to be told it has done a good job and won't start if you are in a bad mood. Loves finding hidden cat shit.

The black and decker vintage 80's B&Q managers special. Fearless, one cut grass setting, low enough to look like you've bothered but high enough to make you wonder if you did. Electrics slightly dodgy, wear rubber boots. Always starts, chews stone, rattles and spits them back at you.

The lawnmower make you've never heard of  99.9 % plastic and .1% metal blade. Somehow manages to scalp everything. Makes a peculiar banging noise when it needs emptying which you can dance to.

Notable mentions goes to two of my favourite tools this year. The aged edging shears, razor sharp but wonky so that the leg falls off every seventh cut.

And the hedge cutter with the invisible black wire and penchant for hooking itself over shrubbery. Blunt enough to jam with 2mm twigs but slices through electrical cables like butter.

Which brings me to my favourite garden boots and the only piece of equipment I have control over while using a varied selection of client’s garden tools. Blessed with thick rubber soles and steel toe cap they've saved me from slipping, electrocution and broken toes. Aussie Blundstone safety boots https://www.aussieboots.co.uk/Blundstone/Safety/

And for sterling service while removing a Mahonia japonica and several offsets which weaved through the garden I'd also recommend a root slayer garden spade. Choose any manufacturer but get one with a long enough handle to stop you bending over like an arthritic garden gnome. The one I used was especially custom made for a hobbit. Unless you want to dig on your knees or spend the evening in a bath of soothing herbs get one with a long handle. Incidentally adding fresh springs of rosemary and Celtic Sea salt to a hot bath is the best cure for aching joints and sore backs after a long day gardening.

My favourite moment this year happened while gardening on the edge of a cliff. I’d been tasked with clearing an overgrown garden which had settled into a beautiful, dishevelled wilderness at the edges, steadily creeping inwards, a tangle of roses, bind weed and centred by an old fig tree. The owner had no green bin and an unusual way of disposing her green waste. She just pointed to where a short wall marked the end of the garden and said, 'Chuck it over there and poke it over with the spade' in a strong Norfolk accent. Peering over an abyss, I could see a pile of weeds clinging to the side of the cliff as the soil fell away to the tops of trees and masses of self-sown buddleia below. A shear drop from cultivated to wildness, stretching down to the common to where the locals graze their horses on the free pasture. This was her compost heap.

On my second visit the sun appeared, its warmth penetrating my back and almost made the slow task of picking out the fleshy, white roots of bindweed enjoyable. Almost. I could hear the cat call of buzzards in the distance. Trundling down the path with my over full wheelbarrow, destined for the long drop below, I  suddenly stopped in my tracks as I came eye level with a pair of buzzards, circling on the warm thermal over the common below. If I stretched out my arm I could almost brush the tips of their wings with my fingers.

One of those moments when the majesty of nature puts our human foolish and pointless lives to shame. Humbled and awed I worked on that garden for the rest of the season, calling out to them on every visit pretending to be a buzzard, hoping they would forget I was human and grace me with their presence but they never came that close again. I think the reason we garden is to be part of something wild that we have lost.

This week in my own garden my heart is soft for the last three roses of November and my borders are full of a healthy mulch of leaves. Perennials uncut and standing. The bay leaves I cut and dropped in August are brown and crispy with just enough room to allow the snowdrops of Spring to appear and pull me through the winter. Gardening softly is a gentle play of looking and curating, leaving out rather than digging in.

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