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One of my hobbies is writing, mostly stories, but I thought "How about something factual?" and came up with this.
Weeds.
Every gardener knows weeds, plants self sown, growing in the wrong place, in continuous conflict with him, or he with them. There is some gain in them, the way they are growing will give some idea of the state of the soil, and they help build the compost heap. Chopped into the tilth with the hoe they are green manure, I knew a man who tolerated dandelions and docks on the edge of the plot for just that reason, “They are drawing nutrients from deep tap roots”s. The tiny spot of colour of scarlet pimpernel, or speedwell jumps out of the agricultural browns and greens, it must have been amazing to our forebears, colours even The Church only imitated in its windows. Weeds are not all bad, but they are always part of life, and the enemy for those who eat only what they grow.
Why is it a continual war? Why are weeds so tough? A pavement crack will do, frost and drought mean nothing, they survive flood, and fireweed is an actual thing. It is as though they have evolved to contest the ground with man, but agriculture has not been around long enough for that.
Let us put aside weeds that are imports, giant hogweed, Himalayan balsam, Japanese knotweed; cultivated escapes. Our own, homegrown, weeds are the wild flowers that evolved and grew in a country forested from coast to coast. They grabbed the few small light spaces there were, sand dunes, shallow soil on the edge of rock formations, clinging on where the trees couldn’t make it, in open spaces, few and far apart, where herbivores grazed to have sight of approaching predators. They lived to reproduce, and got really good at spreading their seed. Then came man, he chopped down the trees, ploughed the land, and hunted the herbivores, bonanza!
Weeds.
Every gardener knows weeds, plants self sown, growing in the wrong place, in continuous conflict with him, or he with them. There is some gain in them, the way they are growing will give some idea of the state of the soil, and they help build the compost heap. Chopped into the tilth with the hoe they are green manure, I knew a man who tolerated dandelions and docks on the edge of the plot for just that reason, “They are drawing nutrients from deep tap roots”s. The tiny spot of colour of scarlet pimpernel, or speedwell jumps out of the agricultural browns and greens, it must have been amazing to our forebears, colours even The Church only imitated in its windows. Weeds are not all bad, but they are always part of life, and the enemy for those who eat only what they grow.
Why is it a continual war? Why are weeds so tough? A pavement crack will do, frost and drought mean nothing, they survive flood, and fireweed is an actual thing. It is as though they have evolved to contest the ground with man, but agriculture has not been around long enough for that.
Let us put aside weeds that are imports, giant hogweed, Himalayan balsam, Japanese knotweed; cultivated escapes. Our own, homegrown, weeds are the wild flowers that evolved and grew in a country forested from coast to coast. They grabbed the few small light spaces there were, sand dunes, shallow soil on the edge of rock formations, clinging on where the trees couldn’t make it, in open spaces, few and far apart, where herbivores grazed to have sight of approaching predators. They lived to reproduce, and got really good at spreading their seed. Then came man, he chopped down the trees, ploughed the land, and hunted the herbivores, bonanza!