I spent a peaceful hour in a shady library garden yesterday, primarily waiting for a face to be painted (not mine) and had a browse of one of those books that it is interesting to read, but not so interesting that you might buy it. Except maybe second-hand on Amazon for a few pence if you ever remembered to. These are a few things I jotted down, the “lawn” being one of my permanent preoccupations.
A grass blade’s no easier to make than an oak.
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)
Nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn.
Francis Bacon (Of Gardens 1625)
Forests decay, harvests perish, flowers vanish, but grass is immortal.
John Ingalls (Speech in the US Senate 1874)
A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule.
Michael Pollan (Second Nature 1991)
One of the side-effects of drinking all that ale with the Devon Home Cook was that I was prevailed upon to mow my rather clumpy and long, but lush grass that I knew was hiding a multitude of sins – rather like a bald bloke’s combover.
This was the result.
One very good reason to stay indoors this afternoon
and look at Wimbledon’s lawn
in the absence of any live televised South African turf.
And not forgetting I could watch the green grass of
Chantilly where Dick Turpin will attempt
to overcome the very impressive Lope de Vega
at the awkward French time of 2.42 p.m.
Alternatively I could go outside and pave over the lot,
but there is something about a patch of green,
however small and pathetic,
that speaks to me.