Christmas Planning and Fence Posts

 There’s a dangerous sentence I seem to say far too often, and it usually gets me into trouble.

“I’ll just do a bit.”

This time it was while preparing the ground for the slabs. Just a bit of levelling, I told myself. Just tidy it up slightly. Famous last words. A few minutes in and I was knee-deep in soil, questioning previous decisions, and wondering why my back clicks like an old gate whenever I bend down.

It was during this “just a bit” session that I found myself dragging things out from behind the old shed — a place where forgotten tools go to live out their retirement in peace. And there it was. My old garden roller. Not plastic. Not hollow. Not something that folds up neatly and fits in a box. This was a proper roller. Solid. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Made by an old English company called Ironcrete — a name that sounds like it should come with a flat cap and a stern look. As far as I know, the company no longer exists, which somehow makes the roller even better. They don’t make things like that anymore because, frankly, they don’t need replacing.

The last time I used it was over ten years ago when I re-laid the front lawn. Since then it’s been quietly rusting away, waiting patiently for its next moment of glory. Sadly, the handle had not aged quite so well. Years of damp had reduced it to something best described as “optimistic wood”. One squeeze and it would’ve folded like a cheap biscuit.

No matter. I had timber. Old timber. The best kind. A bit of rummaging, a bit of cutting, and a lot of “that’ll do”. Before long I’d fashioned myself a new handle. Was it straight? No. Was it smooth? Also no. Did it work? Absolutely. Which, in my book, means it was perfect.

And honestly — what a tool. There’s something deeply satisfying about old kit. No noise. No fuss. No instruction manual thicker than a Bible. Just weight, momentum, and you doing the work. Each slow pass across the soil felt purposeful, almost calming. My modern tools are great, but they do have a habit of rushing you. Old tools don’t rush. They remind you you’re not as young as you think, but they don’t rush.

I’ve built up a small army of old garden tools over the years, and I’ll admit I’m quite attached to them. Each one has a story. Or at least a very good excuse for not throwing it away. One of my favourites is my Qualcast Panther push mower, which I restored many years ago. I’ll be honest — it hasn’t been out for a while — but when it was, it was a joy.

Smooth running, lovely cut, and not a cable or spark plug in sight. No shouting at it, no pulling the cord until your arm feels like it’s coming off. Just push and walk. The lawn always looked better for it too. I should probably use it again, though I suspect my shoulders would have a few opinions on the matter.

While I was busy enjoying myself with soil and nostalgia, the weather decided to remind me who’s really in charge. The winds the other night were something else, and I soon noticed the fences on the far side of the garden were bending more than I liked. These aren’t your average fence panels either. Oh no. These are proper ones.

They’re completely home-made, thirteen feet long and six feet high, built about thirty years ago by my father-in-law — who is very much alive, very capable, and still setting the standard whether he knows it or not. Those fences have seen everything thrown at them and stood firm. Rain, wind, sun, frost — probably a few questionable decisions too.

But even the best-made things need a bit of help now and then. I had a few spare posts left over from another job, so I decided to add an extra post in the middle of each panel. A bit of support where it’s needed. Something I’m becoming increasingly familiar with myself.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was a satisfying one. There’s a great comfort in strengthening something rather than replacing it. Those fences will now stand there for years yet, quietly doing what they were built to do — and doing it well.

Every time I work on something my father-in-law made, it’s a gentle reminder that good workmanship really does last. No shortcuts. No nonsense. Just get on and do it properly. A lesson I try to follow… with varying degrees of success.

And then, as always, my thoughts drifted forward. This time of year does that to me. Planning season. Dreaming season. The part where optimism is still allowed. I used to sit at the table with seed catalogues spread everywhere, cup of tea in hand, drooling over glossy photos of vegetables that look nothing like what actually comes out of the ground.

Choosing between varieties felt like a life decision. Now it’s mostly online. Faster, easier, and probably better for the planet — but not quite the same. Still, I enjoy it just as much. Scrolling, comparing, planning, convincing myself that this will be the year everything goes exactly to plan. It won’t. But hope springs eternal.

Trying to plan around our weather is becoming more like a guessing game. Too wet, too dry, too cold, too hot — sometimes all in the same week. But that’s gardening. If it was easy, everyone would do it properly.

And as if all that wasn’t enough, there’s baking to think about too. I’ve got a mid-week baking session lined up, and I’m hoping — really hoping — that it means I won’t have to bake over the Christmas weekend. There’s festive baking, and then there’s wanting five minutes with your feet up and a mince pie someone else made.

So that’s where I am. Levelling soil with a roller that could probably outlive me. Propping up fences built by hands that knew exactly what they were doing. Planning crops that haven’t been planted yet. Baking ahead to buy myself a bit of breathing space.

Old tools. Old skills. Old habits. Still working. Still earning their keep. And as long as I can keep moving — even if it’s a bit slower and with more noises — I’ll keep doing the same. One slab, one post, one loaf at a time.