So it was with the next phase of laying out the terrace. This was in part a large turfing job, and nobody at all, apart from me, had ever laid a piece of turf before. But before that there was the path to construct, board edging to put in, hardcore to compact, sand spread on top, and gravel whacked in to that. First, all the compaction had to be relieved where machinery had destroyed the soil structure every day for the previous two years. Borders had to be dug and manured for the pear trees, and the large semi-circle had to have soil imported and levelled prior to turfing, planting the box hedges and laying the gravel. Let's assume that everything went fine. In fact, I don't remember much, other than a row with the topsoil supplier about the poor quality of the product. I no longer remember if we kept it and made do, or got them to uplift and remove. It doesn't matter, the end result was acceptable. Everything was spread, levelled and the box hedges were planted in their semicircles, flanked by areas of fresh turf.
The laying of the turf, however was a bit of a saga. I knew it was coming, and arriving on pallets, to be delivered at the far end of the terrace. Playing upon the charitable status of my employers, I had managed to score the loan of a fork-lift truck from the local nationally-renowned potato processor, and the day the consignment arrived I duly set off to pick the truck up. I don't think it would be possible to do this nowadays. I got dropped off at the factory three miles away and drove the thing back on public roads. I had no fork-lift licence or training, probably no insurance, and the contraption was a law unto itself. Built for tight turns, but also large enough to shift enormous weights, it was huge. Its capricious rear-wheel steering set in motion a random lurching from side to side as I progressed at very few miles per hour down the main road, cars and lorries dodging me, and people on buses pointing and laughing.
When I arrived at the workplace, I struggled to negotiate the back drive, riddled as it was with potholes, and brought the monster to a halt beside the assortment of pallets at the end of our newly-constructed terrace path. The trouble was, the forklift was designed to do its stuff on hard, level factory floors, and had zero ground clearance, so as soon as I tried to make it climb the slight slope of our gravel path, it dug itself in and sulked till we gave up. This was a big blow, as not only would we have to reconstruct that part of the path, but we would also have to manhandle the turf from one end of the terrace to the other, and various points in between. This made the estimated time for the job unrealistic, and it became clear that we wouldn't be finished for the weekend. Obviously, we didn't want the grass lying there, yellowing in its rolls, over the weekend, so I enlisted the help of one of the squad to come in and help me finish up on Saturday and Sunday on promise of time off in lieu. A good man, but generally unreliable, time off seemed to be the sort of carrot he would devour willingly. Between us we got the job done, and I must say, simple in effect though it was, it didn't look bad.
The box hedges were mostly recycled remnants that we had chopped back and saved. They looked rough when newly planted, but soon developed into a reasonable feature. One of the problems about working for charities is the lack of a budget. Don't buy new, if you've got one already, half dead but recoverable with care and skill. I learned a lot through that approach.
In the picture above the pots on the steps can be seen in their newly-planted state. and there is a rare rear view of a gardens adviser helping with the watering. That's the one on the right.
And don't forget how it had looked a few weeks before.
Tomorrow we'll see the Grand Opening. Bate your breath!
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