Mr Furlong and I cut down the old ivy covered wooden arch that must have been in the garden for, maybe twenty or thirty years. I’m going to ask the people who put it there when exactly they did.
The howling wind that frightened the dog the other night, almost blew it down. But it had been lurching sideways, not a thing of beauty, since we moved here.
Cutting down Ivy can make you very sick. We knew that our Ivy was that kind. Pretty deadly actually. The arch was covered on one side with variegated ivy which seems friendly and not sick making, and on the other side, dark green English Ivy. THAT’S the one to avoid.
We dressed carefully to do the job. Mr Furlong was covered from head to toe and wore a surgical mask. I wore purdah with a black voil scarf covering my head and face. Gloves. No skin exposed.
It took us an hour. It was HARD work.
Some of the stems were the thickness of Mr Furlongs wrist. He used a saw. Ivy “wood” is hugely tough, without rings it seems. No way of dating the age from the slices.
Last time we worked with the Ivy, we both were dreadfully ill for a week. We weren’t going to have that happen again.
Afterwards, we threw all our gear in the washing machine, every piece, and then showered ourselves, every piece.
We have survived.
The dog did nothing but sit on the garden table in the sunshine watching us.
Dogs are pretty useless sometimes, don’t you think?