With a little help from Toadlet, I got this far with That Cotoneaster. Whenever I say or think that word I think of my dad, who died in April 1993: he always, deliberately, said Cotton Easter.
Some roots got left in the ground as simply too difficult to get out. If they resprout, I'll mow them down. Out of the old and partly dying rhododendron next to the Cotton Easter bank, I got quite a pile of firewood, mostly just snapped off with a little help from my boot.
So then I had a neat slope and clarty boots.
As I rolled the breeze blocks to the Rattletrap to take to the dump, one of the whole ones broke into pieces. This made it much easier to lift.
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| off to the dump we go |
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