By callumpix

The Woodsman's Son

Few months back, rooting about minding someone else's business I met a fit looking guy, hair greying.

Bill was his name but said I could call him Jack the Lad. Said that when he was younger, his kids couldn't get through the wild growth by the side of the railway track.

Now, with time on his hands he was clearing it for his grandkids and for his quick witted collie-looking dog.

Swore me not to tell where it was...didn't want the council knowing one of its plebs was up to some good.

Content and bothering man and his dog, axe, machete and occasional chainsaw.

Piled the brush into square corrals. His dad who was a gamekeeper at Roslin told him they were called woodsman's cots. Hard days graft and you'd throw some turf, bark and your coat on top crack open a bottle of hooch and that's you 'til morning time.

It was beautiful to look at part guerilla garden, part sculpture, part outdoor Turner Prize.

Went back today. Overgrown with no sign of Bill but with signs his private garden had been discovered.

Tyskie toting arsonists, Home grown Skolskulls, Swan Vestas and barbecues gone bad.

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