Mowers Strike Back

Times of TW

Ancient Mowers Strike Back

By Kent Barker

Barker’s ‘First Law of Country Living’ dictates that grass-cutting machinery will fail to work in direct relation to the amount and urgency of the task needing to be achieved.

Thus if the lawn is particularly long and ragged and it’s vital to tame it before, for instance, a party for 50 guests in two days time, then it is all but certain the mower will not start.  Or, if it does, will conk out almost immediately. Or inexplicably stop half way through the job.  Which is, in a way, the worst option.  One can, just, gazing out over the wilderness that was you lawn, assert: “We’re deliberately keeping the grass long this year to propagate wildflowers and encourage butterflies”.  But if half has been roughly trimmed and the rest looks like Boris’s hair, the line loses certain credibility.

I was thinking of this as I pulled and pulled again at the starting rope of my ancient blue Landmaster Stoic.  This is – or was in its day – the most wonderful machine.  The trouble is that its day was some years – or even decades – ago.  I still remember going to buy it in Heathfield though. It had an excellent system for folding down its handle so as to be able to transport it in the back of a car.  The only problem being that it was so heavy it would take two or three able bodied persons (we mustn’t be sexist here now, must we?) to lift it. I must have saved up for it for sometime because it cost a whopping  £350 (which, in pre-decimal terms, was about - £350 – the sort of sum for which you could buy a house, or at very least a decent second-hand car).

Anyway the Landmaster was the first mower I’d owned which was self-propelled and it would take on almost any length and type of foliage.  It’s true it wasn’t much use for neat lawn work as it had no collection box and spewed out the grass from a vent at the side. This had a flap on it to prevent fingers getting near the blade.  But as it often became blocked, we soon removed the flap and, so far, my digits remain.

Mind you it’s lucky my feet are still attached to my ankles given the mower that the Stoic was replacing.  This was a truly veteran thing from the 1930s or 40s called – I think - an Autosickle.  The engine was mounted between a pair of stout bicycle wheels with two handles projecting backwards. The motor powered a fan belt which was attached to a revolving disk near the ground out at the front.  But the disk had three extremely sharp blades attached and absolutely no protection whatsoever.  It was incredibly effective at cutting the most resilient of scrub, undergrowth, and even medium-sized saplings, but undoubtedly lethal if a dog or small child got in the way.

So unsafe was it that I’m beginning to wonder if it might not have been adapted by my grandfather.  I can’t find any sign of one online.  Perhaps the manufactures have expunged any details fearing litigation.  Anyway throughout my youth this provided excellent if somewhat nerve-wracking service.  But the time came when it, and the only slightly less dangerous Rotosythe, gave up the ghost and we had to go shopping in Heathfield for something else to tackle the meadow.

Now, though, as you will have gathered, that new shiny blue Landmaster has itself become something of an antique and developed a will of its own.  It either starts first pull or not at all.  If the latter, you have to leave it for a number of hours and then creep up to take it unawares and yank the starting rope before it’s had a chance to decide to take a duvet-day.

The Stoic’s decline has coincided with the need for more extensive cutting power in the paddock. Each summer I host a boutique music festival and some 400 superannuated hippies descend on the field to chill out and listen to Grateful Dead cover bands.  But they do seem to prefer to camp on ground that is not waist-high in grass, thistles and nettles.

 Accordingly, a couple of years ago, I went a bit mad and bought a second-hand tractor and topper.  Being pretty ancient they were only about the cost of a new ride-on mower and so far have provided excellent service.  There’s something extremely - well countrified – about sitting behind the wheel of a rusty red tractor.  And as a friend once noted, “He who dies with the most toys wins!”.  But there’s still more than a sporting chance that, the week before the field must be mowed for the festival, ALL my grass cutting machinery will go on strike.