Those days were hot, endless, full of orange squash and jam sandwiches and fun. The morning I wrote this piece it followed a bright full moon and a heavy frost.

On numerous occasions over the years I have watched the white-tipped blades of grass turn into lawns of dew and damp rotting dark brown oak leaves. When I walked across the grass earlier this morning, after the freezing air had caught my breath, the grass crisped beneath my feet. I looked back and saw my size nine prints in the frost chasing me. This was all far removed from those early seventies summer days. But even in the stifling heat of the sunny Saturday afternoon dad would push the mower up and down, up and down, up and down the lawn with the top button of his white shirt securely fastened and the Windsor-knotted tie perfectly placed. As I burnt to a crisp in my shots and exposed skinny body, I could never understand how dad didn’t expire – he seemed oblivious to the heat, although once or twice I would see him pause to wipe his brow with his faithful whitish handkerchief. The thought of a lukewarm glass of squash would never cross his mind let alone pass his lips – no, it was strictly tea in the afternoon. If the blazing sun ever dared to send even hotter rays down on our parched garden dad would sometimes relent and discreetly undo that top button. He was a stickler for maintaining standards was dad, even if it was detrimental to his own comfort.

The aroma of the freshly cut grass has remained with me down the decades. Whenever and wherever I smell freshly mown lawns I become a traveller of time – I am transported back to the days of heat, cricket, hand-pushed mowers, thirsty boys, and even thirstier lawns.

When the crisp white frozen lawn becomes bright green as the low winter sun moves around the house I think back to last summer. The spring and summer of 2025 was long, hot and very dry. Due to retirement and remote working we were able to spend a lot of time in my home town in the south west of England with my mum. I was able to spend time in the garden which, since boyhood, has always been a pleasure to be in.

Since dad left us I have enjoyed taking on the lawn mowing responsibilities – with help from my brother. But during the most recent summer months mowing was hardly needed. I recall giving all the lawns an early season mow and apart from the occasional run around with the mower later in the season to pick up the early fallen oak leaves I didn’t have to cut the lawns at all. The straw coloured patchy area once referred to as lawns at the time looked like a vast desert of dead grass. Would it ever be the same again? It was hard to imagine the green as it once was or even if it would ever be that healthy natural shade ever again. But here we are nearly half way through the winter months and everything is as it should be in the garden, including resurrected lawns. Why was the survival of the grass ever questioned? Why did we doubt the lawns ability to return to full health? We shouldn’t have. We already knew that grass is one of natures great survivors.

And I sit here now in the middle of March looking forward to another home town visit and the annual dusting off of the lawn mower.