Scything

A couple of weeks back the cobwebs were dusted off the trusted scythe. The relentless growth of the grass had made the mower redundant. Not since that first summer when all we had mechanically was a Flymo had I attempted to cut the two acres with just a blade and an aching left shoulder. Not for the faint-hearted but a necessary back up to cutting if I didn't want another ruined and scrapheap-bound grass cutter. 
I'm certainly no expert at this folly. My method would be scorned or laughed at by the old folk round here. I tear the grass instead of slice through poor technique or use of a blunted blade or a combination of both. Maybe I'm showing off to myself in belief that I can do it having never done so or needed to. Or is it a rebellion from my father's perfectly manicured lawns from childhood. I have produced though an adequate carpet of grass cuttings/hay for insulation of the thirsty vegetable garden. 
With the sun beating down this week, seedlings have gone from teenagers to young adults. And the worries of Jaffa's trampling paws on our well worked soils become less of a threat.
It's hot and still now, jokes about tipi erections as they go up ready for a steady flow of passing-by folk through these parts. 
We argue when is the best time to visit, now has a strong case with the abundance of herbs and wild flowers uncut in the surrounding meadows and hundreds of deafening birdsongs.
Though within a few weeks everything will change. The noise from combines and tractors as they come strolling in to flatten the fields. No place for the slicing or tearing scythe by then.