An English In Kentucky


















October 3rd 2010    Tim Candler

    The great hedges belong to those landscapes that predate wire fencing.   Miles and miles of Hawthorn that required years and years to grow.   They were not something a person could pop up in an afternoon.  But when established they provided security for livestock, rabbits for kitchens, fruits and insects for bird life, fuel for wood fires.

    A simpler time, some might argue.  A time when a great majority devoted their lives to agriculture and many yearned for the freedom of city life where landowners had less say and where landlords were not much wanted.  

    But wire fencing imposed straighter lines upon the landscape.   A wire fence does not curve easily.  It sits most comfortably when stretched straight as a die from an anchored corner.  The resulting geometry has appeal, because the minutiae of property lines are more easily judged.  Which is always a comfort.

     Odd though if we lived in circles only, because circles meet at points, and there would be acres and acres of no-mans land.   Which of course would be intolerable.

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