To mow or not to mow

“Some people choose meadow. Others have meadow thrust upon them” - Anon. (Okay, it was me. I said that.)

It was only a few weeks ago that I was admiring the long grass down the back of the property. It was alive with damselflies, butterflies, hoverflies and bees (and many others I can’t see or identify). 

I was toying with the idea of letting more of our vast lawn revert to… what? Meadow? It would hardly be a return to the wild that it was before settlers arrived and cleared the valley for farming. I’m not even sure what plant species would have originally been here.

Letting some of the lawn grow would simply mean creating a patch of untouched habitat. It would do its own thing, becoming a haven for insects and birds and hedgehogs. It would be wonderful. 

It would be fair to say not everyone here was on board with the plan. But I was working on it. While also wondering if I would be okay with the untidiness myself. Like I said, it wouldn’t be reverting to native species. It’d more likely look like a farm paddock. Or a roadside verge. Or an abandoned property. Clearly, not wholly on board.

Meanwhile, the mower broke. It’s not a quick fix. It’s been 5 weeks, and counting. It’s spring here—wet and warm—ideal growing conditions. The lawn is now meadow-like, whether we want it or not.

It’s green with a haze of yellow. It’s mostly dandelion and buttercup flowers, but there are lots of other DYC’s (damn yellow composites). The daisies close up when the sun goes down. The white and pink clover flowers look like gumballs. The scent of chamomile wafts up when I tread on it. Seedheads tower over everything. There are so many things I can’t identify.

When the wind blows, grass and flowerheads undulate like waves on the sea. The whole thing has a lumpy appearance. I feel like a giant marching over hills and valleys in my oversized boots. I took a slo-mo video of my feet walking through the long grass. I’ve done one before and it looked cool and arty and relaxing. I have to tell you that in long grass it looks like a post-apocalyptic horror film. Dandelion flowers splayed under my boot, seedheads rocking back and forth as if whiplashed, blades of grass, flowers, untold insects flattened. It was macabre.

I’ve been eating many of the ‘weeds’ in the lawn, thanks to Johanna Knox and her wonderful book ‘A Forager’s Treasury’. Of course, the flowers have a language of their own too. Language-of-flower books were all the rage in Victorian times. 

I was curious what kind of florally coded note I could pick from the lawn. Here’s what I’ve got, in alphabetical order:

Birdsfoot trefoil – revenge (that’s a worrisome start)

Chamomile – energy in adversity (which I’ll need if I am to be enacting revenge)

Chickweed – rendezvous (possibly the cause of the revenge?)

Clover, red – industry (most likely related to the rendezvous)

Clover, white – think of me (I’m seeing a theme)

Daisy – innocence (really? see rendezvous, above)

Dock – patience (someone will need some, for sure)

Forget-me-not – true love, forget me not (ummmm….)

Grass – submission, utility (if that’s not cause for a rendezvous, I don’t know what is)

Mouse-eared chickweed – ingenuous simplicity (finally, something without innuendo)

Parsley – festivities (yay! Christmas is coming)

Scotch thistle – retaliation (clearly someone is still has feelings to work through)

Yarrow – war (could have picked that)

In case there was any doubt before, the meadow has to go. Maybe we'll leave just a little patch, up back. Out of picking reach.