For about ten days, Mr Furlong and I have planned pruning day. It had to be on a Sunday when the car park of the premises next door would be empty as the scrambling roses tumble over the fence into it. They are stunning to see.
We were getting to grips with it, wearing heavy gloves to protect us from the vicious thorns and thick sleeves and headgear to keep us safe from falling branches and side swipes, but then it started to hail. That was about noon-time.