Pond Man tolerates his neighbour but Gallows is a fool, a soft fool, a man who inherited money and hasn’t been able to do anything sensible. No idea what they need; animals and trees, not even the weeds. What’s ‘e feeding that poor creature? Pond Man shakes his head. Soft fellow, soft in the head, too many ideas or no ideas at all.

‘Mornin’ Laurence.’

But the bleating of the goat drowned out his greeting and Laurence Gallows turned out of sight onto the blowy seafront so determined was he to take his scraggy creature to the lighthouse, the place Laurence hankers after more than any other. An outpost, a tower, the site of ancient fortification; Gallows dreamed of occupying this flint covered conical tower to make it his own.

The tower on the site of the old Cudlow Mill now housing a large lamp 40 feet up; for it is up Laurence wishes to go, up and up and up to look out as the Harbour Master looks out upon the stormy seas hoping for a misadventure, a reason to intervene, although he would never admit to such schadenfreude.(German for “I’m glad you are experiencing some difficulties in your life that might prevent you from achieving your dreams).

And Gallows dreams of a telescope; he dreams of flashing lights and the signals of distressed seamen, a clarion call he can never answer, for Laurence is not the sort of man who can think clearly — and Pond Man nods his head and continues to scrape off his boots thinking of his neighbour tripping along the pier with his rope and his tawdry beast.

For Pond Man has been out hoeing; separating clod from clod of stubborn mud, forcing apart particles of chalk and clay and sand. And so now it is time to speak of the modest hoe, the most ancient agricultural implement.

The Hoe

A rectangular paddle set at a right angle; a square leaning slightly into a curve on one side - the bottom - where you’ll find it attached to a handle leaving space in the middle for the earth to pass through. Crumbly soil. Clods of mud. Pebbles and snails and sticky worms. Rotting rose petals and chrysanthemum blooms — cherry pink silk and browning white ruffles  — for petals resemble cloth if you look closely.

Think how they fall in drawing rooms when the breeze runs through; gather and collect into silken pools until the breeze lifts them and they fall to the floor; and so the life of the crying flower comes to an end for those are her tears you walk over.

Flowers shed tears and Pond Man listens; holds up their floppy heads when the wind bashes too hard; gently stirs the soil with the hoe but never to disturb them - the hoe, the gentle hoe, she must not penetrate too far — and now this is her restless hovering, rescuing history, for the hoe has spared us all from starvation and even extinction over the centuries with her modest repetitive movements.

A blade set at a right angle; a blade attached to a wooden handle designed to cultivate plants and undo weeds.  Because the metal hoe is the frontiersman pushing back against wild encroachment. Dandelions, groundsel, bind weed, ivy, nettles, and virginia creeper from the side of the house — the Manor — we will go there later. There there is a lady in charge, Dorothy is her name, and she comes from another place and time, a brief liaison almost forgotten now because no one can quite locate her; Dorothy is the stuff of dreams and she has floated away like willow pollen on the breeze.

While Pond Man keeps hoeing; his square blade touching the damp ground as he pushes back invaders. Himalayan balsam, the worst; she engulfs the side of the river banks, anywhere she can find water, damp ground, a finger of moist earth.

Pond Man has cleared many grounds public and private; he has cleared out the alley that divides his house from Laurence Gallow’s, although Laurence will never acknowledge it. Laurence is not a man to acknowledge service of any kind; that would take piety, humility, some seeing of what is in front of you, the man himself, the man with his metal hoe, his blade, the shape of things, a right angle; a rhomboid attached to a wooden handle sifting the soil; breaking down the leaves and the twigs, the dried grass, the bird’s nest fallen to the ground last Sunday on the high wind. La Nino. Blame her.

The coast guard does, and the harbour master — and Laurence Gallows too who raises his fist to the luminous sky and wonders whether he can dismantle the lamp 40 feet high in his coveted tower - take possession.