Yesterday I began the first cut on the grass on my bit of land - the place where I grow veg, where the rabbits live under the brambles, where the pole lathe stands. I know when it is time to cut the grass when I cannot see out if I am standing in it. Also, when it is all ready to set seed and take over. Also grass is where the ticks live - we get one or two tick bites a day, which is a bit annoying, and I got Lyme infections twice already, (watch for a spreading red ring around a tick bite) which calls for a dose of doxycycline in order to avoid a debilitating illness.
I use a scythe - the kind that Death carries. It is a superb tool, so long as it is sharp enough to take a shaving off your thumbnail. Choof, choof, and all the grass and stuff is lying at your feet, moistened by precious drops of sweat. Scythes are not dangerous to the user, so long as you don't dig the tip in (twists yer arm), but do not stand near someone using a scythe if you want to remain a biped.
Raking it up is hard work (more sweat) but fun when it forms into rolls, and there is something infinitely satisfying about picking a roll up with a pitchfork and putting it into the barrow.
Then down to the local farmer to feed the Old Spots. Appreciative grunting noises.
Now it's come on to rain, and only half of the meadow is mowed, so the rest will have to wait.