Tuesday, 2 October 2018


30th September 2018

Often, these days, a milky mist associates with the course of the Thames as it oxbows and meanders through the dewy cobweb festooned water meadows of Buscot and Radcot. 
Wellingtons or well-oiled boots are a pre-requisite; but the dogs plough on through it regardless, the damp earth and vegetation tantalising them with scented tales of the night. 
At Barnsley this dew transforms the lawns into exquisite beaded silver pools, the scars of the summer sun’s fierce glare healed by dew.  
The ground is still dry and we take advantage of this layer of water. If we leave it the sun will evaporate the dew; instead we take a very wide brush and ‘knock’ the water off, breaking the droplets which then fall to the soil. This is a small act; but a useful cultural tactic in getting every last drop of water down to the roots of our lawns. 
Dews are infrequent in summer, the nights too warm; but at this time of year they appear, as do Ralph or I with ‘the big brush’, in our efforts to re-direct the water and do our bit to preserve the reputation of the slightly bonkers Englishman.

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