Wire netting is everywhere in the Kent Weald – barbed boundaries to ancient pastures where sheep and cattle still idly graze. But what did farmers do for the hundreds of years before stock fencing was invented?
Hedges, so rooted in what we wistfully consider to be our natural landscape, are in fact human-made features, planted almost solely for the purpose of enclosure. Unmanaged hedges are not a permanent solution, though: young trees mature, trunks become bare, and animal‑sized holes appear, rendering them useless. To remedy this, the practice of hedge laying was developed; unlike bricklaying, it is an act of maintenance rather than creation.
Regional styles abound: Devon’s hedges growing atop banks are laid very low; the “Midland style” is laid high and thick to withstand cattle. Learning to lay in the “south of England style” was not complicated, but becoming proficient has taken years of practice.
Early this morning, I began laying a stretch of leggy hawthorn by removing the undergrowth and low branches. Then, starting at one end, I freed the first tree from its neighbours and cut almost, but not entirely, through the base with an angled swing of the axe. This pleacher is then bent over, still attached to its root by a tongue of living material, and laid down in line with the hedge. This is repeated until there is a continuous, thick barrier.
It will still be vulnerable to wind and barging animals, so I’ll drive wooden stakes in through its central line and apply a rope-like binding of hazel wands, securing it until new growth knits the structure together. A well laid and maintained hedge can last decades; when it fails, it can simply be relaid.
The hedge before me will never hold livestock. Like most modern hedge-laying projects, the aim is to reinvigorate it and reinstate it as an environmental asset, a home and conduit for creatures, rather than a barrier.
To the onlooker, this is conspicuously romantic work, repairing the living arteries of a landscape with ancient skills and simple tools. On the ground, it is harsh, physical labour, undertaken in all weathers. But it is beyond these hardships that true romance resides: to look, cold and exhausted, over a section of completed hedge is a profound pleasure.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
