Berberis. It falls firmly into the marmite category of shrub world. Love them or hate them. I inherited those three, centre of shot, as four foot high monsters bent on world domination.
The ideal thing would have been to winch them out but I can’t help feeling much of the bank would have followed them down. As a compromise they received the full monty short back and sides and ended up a clump of twigs 15 inches high. Of course they grew back. And grew. And grew. Leaving me with a wrestling match at least twice each year. Perched on the side of a 45° slippery slope wielding a hedge trimmer is no fun at all. Resorting to old fashioned shears made the job safer but in no way easier. And then there’s the wretched task of picking up all the bits. Even supposedly thorn proof gloves couldn’t cope with that.
And woe betide any fledgling shoot that decides to chance its arm. I am ready with the secateurs.
A thorn in my side no longer.