Cutting Grass — When You Probably Shouldn’t

 Wednesday gave us one of those days that feels like a little gift. Sunshine. Proper sunshine. The sort that makes you stand there with a mug of tea looking at the garden thinking, “Right… today might be the day.”

Of course, the problem is what came before it.

Rain. Plenty of it. The weekend did a very thorough job of soaking absolutely everything. Lawns squelching, borders sticky, and that tell-tale shine on the grass that says you’re going to regret this.

But I’d been itching.

You know that feeling. You walk past the garden ten times a day and every time the grass looks just a bit more untidy. Not wild — just messy enough to bother you. Winter growth is slow, but it still grows, and when it does it always seems to do it at the wrong time.

I held off as long as I could.

Then Wednesday arrived.

Sun out. Air still. Ground… well… still wet. Very wet. But sometimes you just have to take a chance. Gardening isn’t about perfect timing — it’s about opportunity.

So I did the deed.

Out came the mower.

Not the big heavy one — that would have been madness. This was a job for the old lightweight mower. It’s one of those bits of kit you keep for exactly this sort of situation. Not flashy. Not powerful. But gentle enough not to churn the lawn into something resembling a rice paddy.

Blade set to the highest setting. That part is important.

When the lawn is wet, you’re not cutting for perfection. You’re tidying. Taking the top off. Giving everything a bit of shape so it doesn’t look like the garden has quietly given up.

First few steps told the story straight away.

Squish.

That unmistakable feeling under your boots. Not flooded, but soft. Soft enough that you know heavy machinery would leave tracks that would annoy you for weeks.

The lightweight mower coped well though. Slow and steady — no rushing. Wet grass doesn’t like rushing. It clumps, sticks, and generally reminds you who is in charge.

You quickly learn patience.

Front garden first. Always the front. That’s the one the world sees, and if you’re honest, it sets the tone. A quick tidy there lifts everything. Edges left for another day — this was not edging weather — but a gentle cut made an immediate difference.

It went from “winter tired” to “someone still cares”.

Round the back next.

This is where the real test was. Less sun, more shade, and predictably wetter underfoot. You could feel the mower working harder, not from power but from the grass being heavy with water. Each pass needed clearing. Little clumps gathering, sticking, refusing to behave.

Classic wet mowing.

You either fight it or accept it.

I’ve learned to accept it.

There’s no point chasing perfection in February. This is maintenance, not presentation. A reset. A signal to the garden — and yourself — that the season is edging closer.

And that’s really what this job was about.

Not the grass.

The feeling.

That shift where you stop waiting for spring and start preparing for it.

There’s something satisfying about using the right tool at the right moment. That old lightweight mower earned its keep again. It’s easy to overlook older equipment when you’ve got bigger, better machines, but days like this remind you why you never get rid of them.

They have their moment.

This was one of them.

By the time I finished, the lawn wasn’t perfect. You wouldn’t put it in a magazine. There were a few clumps, a few softer patches, and that slightly uneven look you always get after a wet cut.

But it looked cared for.

And that matters more.

Gardens don’t need perfection — they need attention. Small jobs done when you can do them. Little nudges forward. Signs of life.

I stood there afterwards, muddy boots, mower put away, looking at it the same way I had that morning — mug of tea in hand.

Only this time the garden looked awake.

Rain will come again — it always does. The ground will stay wet for a while yet. But that first cut, even a cautious one, feels like turning a page.

Spring isn’t here.

But we’ve started.

And sometimes that’s all you need.