It started well. A drive in the early morning sun as Exmoor looms large in the distance is rarely a chore. Arriving at The Mantles Estate my civet poo coffee was freshly brewed and only slightly less warm than my welcome. The twin magnolias battled to outdo each other’s beauty. Sparrows squabbled over prime real estate in the meld of clematis/wisteria. All was well in the world.
Lord Mantle is on a mission. It is called “tame the iris in the pond”. This Iris pseudoacorus, innocently planted several years ago, has become a island, so large the resident frogs recently declared independence from the Principality of Kemacott. This behaviour cannot be tolerated, these flags need to be culled. Too large to manhandle, His Lordship had a cunning plan. He bought a winch. Are warning bells ringing? They should be.
As we worked on our own jobs in the garden, myself and Her Ladyship were on high alert, ready to assist when needed. Which we were. We pulled, we pushed, we gave advice that was very well received (fib), we used broom handles and scaffolding planks as levers, we returned to our duties as necessary. The chief engineer was patient and methodical. “Can you just pull on this strap?” he asked in his pretty please voice. “Of course” I replied “It would be an honour”.
Really I should sue. Look at their faces of concern.
I had an extra cheese roll at lunch time. It seems it is more important than ever to pad out my tail end. My amble posterior saved me once again.