A monthly anecdote of Suffolk living

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Some guests just don't know when to leave

by Guy Massey

It's been a dreary, sun-less, spring this year and, at the moment, the summer is not looking to be much better. Even the weather forecasters on the television are now apologising for the dull weather. Of course, it's not really their fault; we just like to blame them and poke fun at them whenever they get it wrong. Remember the 1987 hurricane? Michael Fish said: "A woman rang the BBC to say she heard there was a hurricane on the way. Well don't worry, there isn't?" Oh yes? We awoke the next morning to total devastation. The worst storm in 300 years had swept right across the UK from west to east wrecking havoc as it went.

Trees were down all over the grounds. The road from the house to the village was blocked for three days until Lenny Lenny finally managed to cut his way through with his trusty chainsaw. He then spent another three days collecting the good wood and burning the rubbish. Nearly all the pantiles from the stable roofs had been ripped off by the wind and lay smashed and scattered around the yard and in among the straw in the loose-boxes. The traumatised horses stood in a state of shock - although thankfully unharmed - as though they had lived through the Charge of the Light Brigade. One of the large barn doors had broken free during the night and hung at a dangerously unhealthy angle from one hinge. And we had no electricity for 12 days. Cooking was not so much of a problem but boiling water on the Aga and carrying it upstairs to the bathroom became tiresome. So, no hurricane then? Just a strong wind. OK.

There's no denying that in June and July in a good year this part of Suffolk must be one of the finest places on earth. The barley, still upright and just on the cusp of turning to a golden yellow, blows gently in the warm breeze forming ever-changing psychedelic patterns across the fields. Some of the early hay will have been cut and will lie, puffed-up, in rows while that same warm wind blows through turning the freshly cut grass into valuable winter feed.

Depressingly, it's not like that this year; it's just dull. The tomatoes in the greenhouse are holding their own and doing well enough but the outside vegetables are struggling to make headway. They will probably come right in the end - they usually do - but they don't look too promising at the moment.

However, despite these endless grey days the grass just keeps on growing. Come the end of June we expect the peak growth to have receded and the mad rush to keep on top of the lawns tailing off. But not this year. It's still growing a couple of inches a week and the grass-cutting is still never ending. Weekend after weekend is spent grass-cutting. And still there is more to do the following week. Unfortunately, grass-cutting around here takes up a disproportionate amount of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's not a difficult job, and we are geared up with all the equipment required, it's just the never-endingness of it that is gets one down. One feels that the time could be better spent. Like sitting on the old teak seat with a large gin and tonic watching the baby ducks scooting over the lilies and around the pond.

As we have so much grass to cut, and because of the time it takes to do it, we tend not to rake up the clipping preferring to leave them lying around to eventually disappear. But that in itself has been causing a problem this year. Because it's not been wet enough the cut grass is not rotting away, and because it's not been hot enough it's not dying up and disintegrating into dust, as it should do, either. It's just lying there, inanimate, being pushed ever-upwards by the new growth underneath. Not only is it unsightly, it troublesome to cut.

Although that's bad enough it's not the worst of it. The worst this year is that someone else, someone new and uninvited, has decided that we really do offer the best accommodation and facilities and has moved in with his family. We don't see much of them - in fact we don't see anything of them - but they are already making a mess and causing a problem. We weren't surprised at their arrival having seen them in the nearby fields earlier in the year but now they are here we just wish they weren't. I refer, of course, to….. Mr Mole and family!

Lately I have been reading up on moles and I can now appreciate how some people can get quite obsessive about them. Did you know, for example, that a mole can dig an underground tunnel at a speed of 12 -15 metres per hour? Per hour! That's nearly 10 inches per minute. It's amazing. I wish everyone else around here worked as hard. Also, not only does a mole spends its entire life under the ground but it is active throughout the year, day and night. I suppose when you spend your entire life underground the difference between day and night becomes unimportant. But what a worker.

Anyway Mr Mole and family has moved in and I think we have the Arnie Schwarzenegger of moles. Some of his molehills are big enough to turn a tractor over. In fact when Peter, our antique dealer friend, called in for a drink one evening last week he said; "I think that is the biggest mole hill I have ever seen." I think it is the biggest molehill I have ever seen also. Everyday we collect all the mole-hill soil yet everyday there is more to collect. Like the grass- cutting, it's endless.

Although we would rather that they weren't here and didn't stay we wont actually do them any harm. Anybody, or anything, that has the good fortune or foresight to arrive here is assured of a pampered life for evermore. However Murphy, the black labrador, doesn't see it quite like that. He would like to catch Mr Mole or one of his family and take the captive back to his bed. Not that he stands much chance of doing so of course.

We often watch him from kitchen window as he ever so daintily almost stalks the mole hills. From about six feet away he will stand with one leg raised and head slightly cocked to one side to catch the sounds. Then ever so gently, as though walking on air, he will slowly creep forward not making a sound and totally intent on the job in hand until, finally, he has his nose directly over the top of the mole hill. There he will stand motionless for five or ten minutes until he begins to arch this back transferring his weight to his back legs and then he pounces onto the mole hill with his front paws digging away the dirt in almost desperation and putting the workings a JCB digger to shame. Little does the poor chap know but the second he pounces, and probably long before, Mr Mole has done a U-turn and scuttled back down his tunnels for a nice cup of tea and a piece of ginger cake. If Mr Mole can dig at 12 -15 metres per hour think how fast he can get down those tunnels when he's not digging.

Despite Murphy's best effects it seems Mr Mole and family are here to stay. At least in the short term. They are making slow steady progress across the lawns and, assuming the same rate of progress, should, sometime towards the end of the year, move out of the lawns and into the paddocks. We would rather they moved in the arable fields beyond but the grass paddocks will do as a transit camp.

Since Mr Mole and family have arrive we have been asking around for the best advice to encourage them on their way. Everyone has they preferred method for killing them but once you take killing out of the equation the options suddenly diminish. However noise is currently the hot favourite. Evidently moles don't like noise and the sound of wind whistling across the top of an open champagne bottle is particularly irritable to them. Our lawns now bear more than a passing resemblance to the reject bottling plant of Larsen's Back Label with a smidgen of Moet and own-label brands thrown in.

Just by coincidence Bob from the local water authority came to make his annual check on the quality of our water a few weeks ago. He's a nice chap and chats away about the state of the economy and how poorly England play against Brazil, but after he had finished playing with his test-tubes and litmus paper he nodded towards the discarded champagne bottles and said: "Good party was it?" Debs, who was collecting his empty tea-cup and plate, said: "We do it for Mr. Mole and family." "I see," said Bob, who clearly didn't. With that he collected his laboratory-in-a-bag and began to make his way down the drive towards what we jokingly call the main road.

When Bob rang to confirm that the water met all known standards, including European Union standards, he asked how Mr Mole and family was. "Making slow steady progress," we reassured him. Although whether he was reassured or bemused remains questionable.

It's almost a certainty now that Mr Mole and family will remain with us for the rest of the summer, and probably into next year - some guests just don't know when to leave - but will the dreary, sun-less weather know when to leave? Or is it finally going to break into summer?

© Copyright Guy Massey, July 2002

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