Copse End

I’m not sure I’d call it a breakthrough, but progress has definitely been made up at the troublesome end of the garden.

Hello and welcome to the inevitable domestic post I cobble together when I don’t have enough linkies for a decent edition of The Swipe. Let’s talk this week about our landing-strip of a garden—or more precisely, the top ten metres.

When we moved to Reading twenty (twenty!) years ago, it was from a cosy two-up two-down with a concrete back yard you could barely fit two people in. The contrast to what we have now is striking, and shows the imbalance in property prices between London and just about everywhere else in the country (with the possible exception of Oxford, but that has other factors to bring into play).

All of a sudden we had stewardship of a 70 metre long, thin garden with which we have engaged combat since 2004. A lot of the features we inherited have gone. The old, vine-strewn pergola. The multiple fish ponds. The serial-killer-vibing shed. I wouldn’t say we’ve installed order—neither TLC or I are tidy enough or have enough spare time for that. But it’s our space, a cheerfully eccentric outdoor zone in which we potter and cook and enjoy gin o’clock. Middle-aged and middle-class? Guilty as heck on both counts.

The main area of contention has been Copse End, the name I gave that fractious ten metres which mark the southern boundary of the property. A little wood belonging to the adjoining school bumps up against our back fence, and brambles, ivy and bindweed ingress from our neighbours on both sides. It’s where the sun hits in the late afternoon on a summer’s day, yet we don’t spend a great deal of time down there. It’s always too untidy and we’ve never really been sure what to do with the space.

Over time, I’ve stripped out a set of concrete raised beds, removed a mouldering greenhouse, dismantled that murderer’s haunt of a shed. A summerhouse went up, a lawn went down. A huge eucalyptus tree in the middle of the space was hacked out by hand in a cathartic afternoon courtesy of my pal Dom, who used the exercise as an excuse to shed some long-repressed anger. He was a machine that day, I can tell you.

The attempts to tame the space were, by and large, a failure. Again, lack of time and energy when faced with rampant, vigorous nature can only end one way. Over the years, Copse End has regularly devolved into sub-tropical jungle, inimical to human intervention. The lawn, set on unevenly levelled ground, is patchy and pitted with ankle-twisting sink-holes. The summerhouse, the best we could get on the budget we had, slowly rotted.

By the time of the Covid years, Copse End was a maze of brambles, choked in bindweed, barely passable in places. Loyal members of The Readership may recall I gave a status report back in June 2020.

https://excusesandhalftruths.com/2020/06/10/a-little-green/

The pandemic allowed us to give Copse End the two things it needed from us—time and attention. The snarl of spiny, stinging overgrowth was gradually cut back, although there were days when I was forced to retreat, covered in nicks and scratches, swearing after one too many swats across the face from a vengeful whip of nettle. With TLC’s help, sunlight returned, one wheelbarrow full of weeds at a time.

Over the past eighteen months, we’ve put the pedal to the metal. TLC has dug out new beds, with the intention of taking our treacherous lawn down to a winding, wild-flower strewn pathway. The old summerhouse is gone. It was the easiest demolition job ever—I literally pulled it apart with nothing more than a claw hammer and raw brute strength. Stop laughing, I did, I tells ya.

Copse End In May…

In its place on the slab of concrete that marks the border of our land, there’s a tall and sturdy pergola providing shade and a focal point. Built using a bequest from my beloved nan who passed at the end of 2022, we’ve called it Gwen’s Den. We’re growing clematis and jasmine up either side and made a couple of beds along the front edge to provide a pop of colour and interest. Last autumn I even used it as an impromptu performance area when I hosted Reading Writers’ Novelist’s Day (I really must tell you all about that someday).

Meanwhile new tall fences have gone up on either side and, courtesy of the school, across the back. All this has really helped with the ever-present press of thorns and stingers, helping us to stay on top of things. Ok, we can’t chat to the neighbours anymore, but hey, there are downsides to any big project.

I’ve even excavated the old footings for the ancient greenhouse, which will be re-tasked as a little seating area. It feels like finally we can start to use Copse End for its intended use—a sunny spot for our 5pm negronis and gintonics.

…and today.

We were lucky to have a good green space to retreat to during lockdown. It was a massive help, a salve to our mental health which saved us from feeling like prisoners in our own home. Plenty of folks didn’t have that and I will always be aware of our privileged position and grateful for what we have. The past few years up at Copse End have taught me to be patient with my garden, to pay attention to its needs, and to understand the work is never done. Look, I can’t pretend to be anything but an enthusiastic amateur, but I do try. The tomatoes, cucumbers garlic and squash which are in play this year are testament to what even a fucknuckled goofball like me can achieve with time and a little effort. Even in Copse End, there’s always opportunity for change, growth and new adventures. I’ll raise a glass in the sunshine to that.