(Disclaimer: I did not actually wield the chainsaw.)
Here I was, thinking I’d be able to get this post up the very next day after the last one. What I did not manage to take into account with that thought process is just how TIRING this whole house renovation malarkey really is. I’ve been exhausted! Luckily, Nancy and I have quite a bit of progress to show for our efforts.
This is what our garden looked like on day 1.
Welcome to the jungle
We have had about 12,000 years of rain down here (mild hyperbole; at least nothing here is flooding like Paris has been), so it’s no wonder that things were looking so lush, so vibrant, and quite so overgrown. Still, we looked at that dense wall of vegetation, looked at Madame Suzy’s modest collection of traditional gardening tools, and wondered how the hell we were going to do this.
After a day’s work in the garden, this is what it looked like.
Who knew we had chairs??
How’d we get so much done, you ask? We got very lucky, and borrowed someone who owns his own chainsaw.
Since we knew the little house wasn’t going to be habitable for a solid few months at least, we’ve been renting a holiday property (or ‘gite’ en français) about 7 minutes drive away from the village, from a lovely lady named Hélène. For the past week, Hélène’s brother has been visiting, and since she doesn’t do a lot of DIY or gardening herself, he brought a whole host of power tools to help her out. Her brother – who, hilariously, we’ve been told to call ‘Lulu’, though neither N nor I have actually tried that out yet – very kindly offered to come round our place with his magic toolbox of plant destruction.
The number of Evil Dead quotes I managed to stop myself saying while this was going on: at least 7.
He also has a little trailer thing behind his car, and offered to take our garden waste away and save it for a bonfire once everything’s dried out. Of course, getting quite so much vegetation to fit into a small trailer was not the world’s easiest task. My solution was… unorthodox, I guess?
When in doubt, step on things until they fit, right?
After Lulu the chainsaw/strimmer-wielder headed off for the day, Nancy and I kept going with plain old hand tools. Madame Suzy clearly had a cultivated little patch of ivy growing somewhere, and in the couple of years since her death that once-tame ivy has totally assimilated the whole surface area of the garden, growing up and over existing trees, up walls, into sheds, EVERYWHERE. Ivy: the Borg of plant life.
*whispers* Resistance is futile.
Digging ivy up out of a gravel yard feels a bit like that scene in The Hurt Locker where Jeremy Renner thinks he’s got one bomb, but then he pulls five more out of the ground all around him, only with plant-based annoyance instead of the fear of imminent death by explosion.
Where is all this ivy COMING FROM? – Jeremy Renner, probably
However, we persevered in raking and pulling up most of our twiney nemesis, and managed to get a lot of free-floating aggression and negativity out of our systems in the process. Nothing like taking out your grump on some unsuspecting-yet-evil plantlife.
Our garden is actually twice as big as those pictures up above imply, though, and almost half of its surface area had been totally blocked off by two previously-separate hedges which had grown together to create one enormous super-hedge wall of greenery. We had only managed to get in there to see it once before, by scaling an embankment and climbing over a fence, a series of dead trees, and through a bramble patch at the bottom edge of our property.
I really, really wanted to end the day with a clear access path from the house to the as-yet inaccessible part of the garden. I have no idea why this was so important to me – I’ve never been a keen gardener, as my parents (similarly disinterested in plants) and my grandmother (a green-thumbed genius with all things growing) can attest. Maybe somewhere in my subconsciousness, my childhood self was whispering in my ear about having my very own Secret Garden, years and years after that book first took root in my imagination.
Whatever my reasons, with Lulu and his chainsaw gone, I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. I grabbed our lone pair of gardening shears and headed for the hedge wall. After the better part of an hour of sweat, scratches, internalised disgust at how gross the wet undersides of hedge branches are when they touch your hands, more sweat, and quite a lot of talking to the plantlife (“that’s right, you fucker, you get OFF OF THERE, oh shit you’re attached to twelve other things, DAMMIT” snip snip SNIP), I accomplished my goal.
And took a triumphant selfie, of course.
From Instagram: HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, HEDGE?
Of course, as a perfect metaphor for this whole house-doing-up experience, this is what awaited me on the other side of the hedge, at the back of the garden.
For scale, those brambles are taller than I am. So… hobbit height, at least.
We’re getting things done, we’re working hard pretty much every day, we’re getting quite a bit of crap out of our path as we forge ahead, but my goodness, we still have a ways to go. And behind the hedge, exponentially more work awaits us.
Luckily, we know a guy with a chainsaw.