I pushed past the dense lower brambles where the compass had pointed. Half-buried in accumulated loam lay a cast-iron decorative drain grate, tilted askew and choked with tangled root fibers. It barred the drainage trench. Planting my boots firmly into the damp soil, I gripped the heavy iron lattice with both hands and levered backward with steady resolve. The roots snapped with a dry pop as the grate broke free from the mud. I dragged the slab straight and seated it flush across the stone channel. The forward channel is unobstructed, and the southern boundary line stands resolute.