I hooked the caterpillar out from the remains of the kale plant with a stick
and pushed it down into the soil. It sunk from view. I then continued to
snip the savaged leaves of my Red Russian and Cavolo Nero kales right back
to disheartening stumps. But in the back of my mind the caterpillar just
kept haunting me. What if it recovered from the squishing and, half-dead but
still evil of intent, managed to drag itself back up the kale plant and
continue its appalling mission?
I dug it up again and cut it in half with a
pair of secateurs. Green slime oozed out and it lay in two furry black,
yellow and white halves.
I then moved on to the smaller lighter-green
caterpillars and cut those in half too, before stamping on some bunchy
little beige slugs, throwing a few snails against the wall with a satisfying
crack and, just because I felt like it, eclipsing a small passing fly
between two clapped hands.
God, it felt good. I used to be so squeamish I couldn't lift up a garden
stone for fear of what might be lurking beneath it. Now I prowl around
knee-deep in vegetation searching for pests with "bare hands", and
positively revel in slaughter. |
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| Alex Mitchell |
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I'd worry about it if I thought I was alone. But anyone who gardens knows the visceral thrill of mashing aphids between thumb and forefinger and is familiar with the lemon curd innards of a
stamped-on chafer grub.
Even the knit-your-own-yoghurt,
sprouting-seed-eating hippy becomes a blank-eyed killer when faced with the
destruction of a row of cut-and-come-again lettuce. Even the most militantly
organic grower has been known to blush when the subject of slug pellets is
brought up. Just occasionally, they might admit, when they're really
desperate and the cats are out of potential harms way, they'll use " a
tiny few". We all have limits, it seems, and they often come in bright
blue crystal form.
It's all about priorities. I could either provide five rows of delicious
winter greens to feed us through the winter or make a small contribution to
the life cycle of the Large and Small White butterfly in a corner of rural
Kent. My response to this moral dilemma? To dance on their little
Lepidoptera graves. But then I was particular upset about the kales because,
for once I had actually been sensible. When I planted the seedlings back in
July, I covered them with Agralan mesh I bought on the internet. This stuff
looks highly professional ie makes your garden look like a rubbbish tip
so I had faith. Clearly, though, the mesh has acted less as a barrier and
more as a comfy incubation zone for butterfly life. Next year I could build
a high wooden frame to drape the mesh over and hermetically seal the edges,
thereby resulting in a full crop of kale and removing the need for
secateur-dissection altogether. Really, though, wheres the fun in that?
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