He set up the cones, called the council to let them know he’d be tearing up the edge of the lane, and got the spade from the van. The rain started again—not hard, just a persistent, horizontal drizzle that found the gap between his hood and his collar.
He sighed. Roots meant digging. Roots meant a long afternoon. blocked drains meath
He fed the rods down, feeling for the block. This was the part Fiachra never understood. Why don’t you just use the jetter, Da? he’d say. The jetter was a powerful hose with a nozzle that could blast through anything. But Eamonn preferred the rods. Because the rods told you a story. He set up the cones, called the council