This morning we awoke to a rare Sunday/decent weather congruence. ’tis a miracle! I cried, skipping gleefully out into the garden at the first opportunity.

I spent most of the morning doing some amateur hour surveying of the garden. Approximate distances between trees, precise rockery calculus, potential vegetable plot dimensions. Extra space gained along one edge where next-door-out-the-back is putting in a fence, and has removed a massive section of privet.

After this Wordsworthian bit of puddle measuring, I was casting about for something more horny-handed son of the soilish to occupy me. My gaze fell upon this fallen arch:

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Topically, the deceased honeysuckle and ivy combination reminded me of Donald Trump’s hair. It had to go.

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I take great delight in hacking ivy back to nothing – the slightest root left and it insinuates itself with assurance round anything static – so set about the task with some relish. And a pair of secateurs and a bow saw.

An hour and a half later, victory was secured:

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The arch had sustained quite a bit of damage, with the weight of the stems and the insidious snaking of the hedera adhering to the joists.

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As is evident from the pics, the wood is quite warped. I was unsure how much the creaking as I was shifting the struts about was an indicator of imminent collapse, but a bit of drilling here and there (which by the looks of the ways the screws are sitting may need redoing), and it looked as good as nearly new intentionally rustic.

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So, good to go with some honeysuckle, clematis or even golden hop? We shall see. Stepping back to enjoy this Valentine’s Day labour of love, it became evident that this garden relationship now requires significant work in another direction:

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I was just contemplating a quick attack with the shovel when the sky intervened, becoming forbidding and then loosing a four seasons in one day hail-and-snow combi. No:

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…and no.

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Still, a good stint, so will sleep well tonight, tired out if not quite worn.

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