Robert Frost (or rather his neighbour) was all about ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Nearly 30 years ago, we bought an old farmhouse with out-buildings and 16 acres and were delighted with ourselves. The buildings were in various stages of collapse and there were A Lot of trees-and-bushes sprouting from the field boundaries. One catty neighbour explained that the previous incumbent had been too feckless to cut the trees for firewood but we were happy-out with the aesthetic and ecological diversity we inherited from the old chap's laissez-faire stewardship. Up until the ash-die back necessitated some judicious felling at the end of 2021, we never had to cut a tree for fire-wood . . . but we never short of the stuff because bits fell off or trees fell down with every storm.
16 acres with a bohereen running through the middle generates ~1.6km of perimeter! Over the years, we have by project and piecemeal repaired or re-instated fences and hedges and ditches good enough to make good neighbours. Most recently denying The Beach to our sheep and before that to keep the East-Neighbour's jumpy sheep from leaping the wall beside the same river. But in general, the policy is if it ain't broke don't fix it . . . for some definitions of ain't broke. Because sometimes the fix will reveal a huge hitherto invisible cavity in the boundary infrastructure which require time and treasure to make good.
Then again, sometimes the grit that niggles is a) never going to birth a pearl and so b) moves from niggle to let's fix that sucker. Case in niggle-point was a 9m section of the West boundary wall where a clatter of gorse furze whin onn Ulex europaeus and bramble dris Rubus spp. had sprung out from the top of the wall - there maybe 1.5m high - and drooped down to the ground as far at 3m from the wall-base. That's not much lost grazing but, behind the green and brown parts of the shrubbery, there was a black whin-tunnel which had room for up to 4 invisible sheep. Invisible sheep canna be counted. Instead of standing on the rise and surveying the flock [15 head + 60 leg = all good], I'd have to go roust out the missing from their shady tunnel. Which is a better outcome than finding one with her stiffening legs in the air; but still a niggle.
The last Thursday in March I touched up my chain-saw, clobbered up in the PPE, and strode off down the field to fix:
Less than 20 minutes later the tunnel was all gone, the wall revealed, the brash tidied back against it and any branches big enough to make firewood stacked in a separate pile for Christmas 2026. Sorry sheep; but there are plenty of other places left in that field where you may shelter from the driving rain and unforgiving sun . . . but in plain sight.