Time for a bit o' slubbin'?

Have you ever slubbed a dyke? It's all right, this is not about doing shameful things to ladies in sensible shoes, it's about cleaning out a ditch, the expression slubbing dykes being Fen talk for that activity.
Because of some quaint survival from the Middle Ages, it turns out that I own* not only my back garden and the hedge at the bottom of it, but also the ditch on the far side of the hedge (which separates me from the farmer's field beyond). Given that the same is true of all the homeowners upstream and downstream of me, it is a little difficult to seriously exploit ownership of what is probably 3% of the total ditch, especially - and it grieves me to say this - there is no Grand Unified Policy about how we should all manage our individual bits.
So, after mature rioja-induced reflection, I decided not to slub out my dyke, though I did tidy its banks and verges. What stopped me, to be honest, was not just the lack of a communal policy, and not even my natural tendency to withdraw in the face of serious physical effort, but the fact that as I squelched my wellie-booted way along my bit of dyke the other day, I disturbed all kinds of interesting wildlife, not least frogs and froglets. I want to leave them in peace to wallow there.
So the answer is: no, no dykeslubbing for me. Mind you, it's a helluva concept: I wonder how it would go down in Old Compton Street?

*For our overseas readers: in fact, according to ancient law, all land belongs to the Crown, down as far as you can dig, but we subjects have unfettered use and enjoyment of it. So, I could dig up my land and take it to Australia, say, but it would still belong to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, God bless Her.