Читать книгу Heart & Soil - Des Kennedy - Страница 19

Cutting Loose

The cutting and lopping of superfluous branches or twigs from vines, trees and shrubs, to promote flowering and fruitfulness or to induce a particular shape, may be a dominant part of the gardener’s early spring. Because smooth pruning demands deployment of the right tool for each job, an avid pruner’s tool kit typically contains an impressive arsenal of cutting devices. On our grounds, finicky snipping is accomplished with ikebana scissors whose slender blades can poke into scarcely penetrable places. We keep half-a-dozen pairs on hand, as they’re useful for any number of ancillary jobs, from cutting twine to shamelessly slicing destructive black slugs in half.

But these lightweights have their limits, and heavier cutting requires pruning shears or secateurs, which is where trouble begins. Most secateurs are, like computer viruses, designed by sociopaths. I keep as evidence a pair of old anvil pruners whose blade chops down against a flat surface. Rather than a clean cut, these brutes invariably give any twig they encounter a tip of mashed pulp. They’re intended for removing deadwood, where a clean cut is unnecessary, or for doing preliminary clips thus saving wear and tear on your superior secateurs, but I find them extremely annoying, particularly as they’re often the only pruners you can lay your hand on when a clean cut’s called for.

Where precise slicing is required, bypass blades are a better bet. Here one is required to choose between a well-crafted and expensive pair or the el-cheapo variety forever on sale as loss leaders in unimaginative gardening outlets. With parsimony our guiding star, we have traditionally gravitated toward the less-expensive alternative, which prove perfectly serviceable for the first half-dozen cuts. But the blades, fashioned near outer Shanghai from recycled mufflers and tailpipes, soon lose their edge. Each cut becomes a clasp wherein the target twig, rather than being severed cleanly, is pinched between the blades and refuses to let go.

A further annoyance is how the spring, inadequately implanted between the handles, periodically leaps free and lands at a distance from which it can be recovered, if at all, only after an extensive ground search.

Finally fed up with wayward springs and clasping cuts, one year I threw economic caution to the winds, purchasing a pair of designer secateurs with cherrywood handles and glittering steel blades that might have been forged at the anvil of Vulcan himself. Thus equipped, I became capable of astonishing keenness of cut. I felt I was, in Thomas Carlyle’s words, wielding “the scissors of Destiny.”

Alas, ’twas not to last. Unlike the garish orange plastic handles of its forerunners, this tony pair’s hardwood handles had an uncanny knack for camouflage. They were impossible to spot when left unattended in the garden, requiring lengthy searches whenever mislaid. After a brief career with us, they disappeared completely. Eventually I discovered their charred remains amid the ashes of the rose prunings. From fire they’d come and to fire returned. My lesson learned, I shuffled back to the familiar torments of the el-cheapos.

Loppers are required for branches too thick to be cut by secateurs. For years I employed an ancient pair of wooden-handled loppers inherited from my dad. When they finally succumbed to the frailties of age, I bought a pair of techno-loppers large enough to fell a giant sequoia. Their chief drawback is they’re impossible to get into tight corners, because the handles open so wide, and it’s remarkable how many stout stems and branches are too tucked away to be vulnerable to long-legged loppers. Visiting the in-laws on one occasion, I did some pruning for them with their newfangled pair of ratcheting loppers, both agile enough to reach into awkward spots and powerful enough to sever sizable branches. I would have been tempted to acquire a pair, had I not already learned my lesson with the high-toned secateurs.

Since our garden is an arboraceous affair, we’re constantly required to prune out tree branches high in the air. For decades I used an antique hardwood pole pruner with a tiny hooked blade controlled by a heavy-gauge wire running down the shaft. Eventually requiring something both longer and lighter, I bought a telescoping pruner that can reach almost four metres high. Both the complex lever system atop the pole and the thin rope that controls the blade have a dreadful tendency to get entangled in every branch they approach. Many’s the time I’m left yanking murderously on the pruner, trying to extricate it from the tree, while hurling vile curses into the canopy.