One of the more obscure outcomes of Andy Murray's victory on Centre Court ten days ago was that I now have twenty-four large bagfulls of well-rotted horse manure in a heap near my caravan. Not only was it free, it comes with an open-ended invitation to collect as much as I need from a huge pile only a couple of miles away. Far from a waste product, this glistening black stuff is a vital source of fertility for my soil. Without this added source of nitrogen and other goodies it is unlikely vegetables or fruit would grow well in it. Almost as significant a result for me as it was for Mr Murray.
Andy Murray can be forgiven for not feeling triumphant about this indirect result of his Wimbledon victory, principally because he is unlikely to be aware of the fact. He will just have to make do with being the first British champion since the 1930s. But, should he be reading this blog post, I will now draw his attention to the pertinent chain of events.
If you, Andy, had not reached the Wimbledon final this year I, whose meagre interest in televised sport is generally only sparked into action by a fellow Brit doing well, would not have gone to see the match at the pub in Dinas Mawddwy, a nearby village. And if I had not gone to the pub that day, I would not have been noticed by a local resident named Rob*. And if this Rob had not noticed me there he is unlikely to have stopped to pick me up as I attempted to hitch-hike back from Machynlleth the following Wednesday. And if he had not picked me up, we wouldn't have had a chance to get into a conversation. And if we hadn't had a conversation, he wouldn't have been aware that I had some land nearby that I was hoping to grow vegetables on. And if Rob hadn't been aware of this, he wouldn't have mentioned that the owner of the caravan park in Dinas Mawddwy had tonnes of horse manure he'd be glad to get rid of. There you are. If the shine of your recent triumph had begun to fade ever so slightly, that should rekindle your warm glow of satisfaction.
Another type of manure had actually begun to be applied to my soil even a couple of days before the fateful tennis match, known in these parts technically as pheasant dung. Yes, they finally arrived, in their hundreds, carted all the way here from Newtown and dumped unceremoniously in the large pen that encloses two thirds of my land. What I hadn't realised was that this pen is solely to keep predators out, not to keep the birds in. The blighters can fly, even at seven weeks old, and fly they do, over the fence and into the area where I live. They strut around like they own the place, poking their beaks wherever they feel like, defecating everywhere and occasionally falling down dead.
At least young pheasants don't seem to make a lot of noise, emitting an occasional quiet squeak, so presumably the annoying squawk begins when their voice breaks. I can't really complain about the fertility-bringing faeces either although I wish they wouldn't do it on my rainwater-collection tarp. They have more to complain about - in a week or two they'll be shoo'ed off across the valley into a wood where they'll have only two months of freedom before the Hooray Henrys arrive with their expensive tweed and their shotguns. That will be the end of most of them. Goodbye Twinkles, Flightwing, Jimmy the Nutter, Blackspot, Happy Larry, Donatello, and the rest of the gang. It's been real.
*Not his real name.
No comments:
Post a Comment