BELONGINGST
here is something gently
Neolithic about working with a
trowel, something that connects
me the holder, nature and time- a tool that has changed little
in the thousands of years of its existence.
What started maybe as a bladed bone has
matured over time into something that
is now a scoop-bladed wooden-handled
implement desig ned to move soil.
Even when a spade or shovel would get
the job done in less time, the trowel is my
tool of choice for digging a hole. Time is
not always the issue when digging – for
me, it’s much more about the possibility
of discovery, along with being outside
feeling the warmth of the sun as I do it.
Recently, I planted a tree, a prunus, a tree
promising vibrant pink blossom in spring
and glorious tints of foliage in autumn. It
needed a bucket-sized hole. A spade would
have made short shrift of the task but then
much of t he plea sure would have been lost
in doing so. My t rowel a llows me to get
up close to that which I am digging.
Posturaly, I like to make myself
comfortable, to better enjoy the brief
encounter between me and the ground,
something a long-handled spade will not
permit. I will maybe lie on the ground
propped up on one arm allowing me to
What means a lot to you? Tell us in 500 words;
[email protected].dig, scrape and twist the soil beneath the
blade, releasing the warm sweet scent of
freshly turned earth and revealing things
that have maybe lain undisturbed for longer
t ha n I’ve existed. A sha rd of gla ss, wor n
smooth and opaqued through the passage
of time or a stone, stark white and veined,
ancient and long cocooned beneath the
surface. Forgotten bulbs rediscovered,
exposed, showing signs of spring beyond
the winter yet to come, their tendrils of
f leshy white roots harvesting moisture
from the ground in readiness to burst
forth with new growth in its given season.
For me, the humble stumpy trowel gives
me the privilege of seeing these things in
rema rkable deta il lay ing before me t he
history of time and the beauty of nature here
in the present together with the promise of
a future by what is to be planted in a way
that its long-handled cousin does not allow.
A spade has its uses, but also a tendency to
put pressure on joint s a nd blisters on pa lms,
but the unassuming trowel – my trowel
with its lack of leverage and its smooth
time-worn handle – nestles comfortably
in my grip and together, we gently
discover the world beneath the turf.My trowel
By Andy Bottomley
WHAT I TREASURE
BELONGINGST
here is something gently
Neolithic about working with a
trowel, something that connects
me the holder, nature and time- a tool that has changed little
in the thousands of years of its existence.
What started maybe as a bladed bone has
matured over time into something that
is now a scoop-bladed wooden-handled
implement desig ned to move soil.
Even when a spade or shovel would get
the job done in less time, the trowel is my
tool of choice for digging a hole. Time is
not always the issue when digging – for
me, it’s much more about the possibility
of discovery, along with being outside
feeling the warmth of the sun as I do it.
Recently, I planted a tree, a prunus, a tree
promising vibrant pink blossom in spring
and glorious tints of foliage in autumn. It
needed a bucket-sized hole. A spade would
have made short shrift of the task but then
much of t he plea sure would have been lost
in doing so. My t rowel a llows me to get
up close to that which I am digging.
Posturaly, I like to make myself
comfortable, to better enjoy the brief
encounter between me and the ground,
something a long-handled spade will not
permit. I will maybe lie on the ground
propped up on one arm allowing me to
What means a lot to you? Tell us in 500 words;
[email protected].dig, scrape and twist the soil beneath the
blade, releasing the warm sweet scent of
freshly turned earth and revealing things
that have maybe lain undisturbed for longer
t ha n I’ve existed. A sha rd of gla ss, wor n
smooth and opaqued through the passage
of time or a stone, stark white and veined,
ancient and long cocooned beneath the
surface. Forgotten bulbs rediscovered,
exposed, showing signs of spring beyond
the winter yet to come, their tendrils of
f leshy white roots harvesting moisture
from the ground in readiness to burst
forth with new growth in its given season.
For me, the humble stumpy trowel gives
me the privilege of seeing these things in
rema rkable deta il lay ing before me t he
history of time and the beauty of nature here
in the present together with the promise of
a future by what is to be planted in a way
that its long-handled cousin does not allow.
A spade has its uses, but also a tendency to
put pressure on joint s a nd blisters on pa lms,
but the unassuming trowel – my trowel
with its lack of leverage and its smooth
time-worn handle – nestles comfortably
in my grip and together, we gently
discover the world beneath the turf.My trowel
By Andy Bottomley
WHAT I TREASURE