And the winner is.

“Hellooo”, was his plaintive cry into the cold, dark and empty room, “is anybody still there”.

CLICK (that’s the light switch). Hmmm maybe not, they’ve all bu**ered off and I don’t blame them either.

Apologies for not having been around for a while, I’ve had a bit of blogstipation you could say. You know, when you sit there and don’t seem to have anything say. Then when I started to write, all that appeared on the screen was an endless stream of consonants, I think it was a touch of irritable vowel syndrome (sorry, but the old ones are the best).

The fact that I’ve hardly been down to the plot for a few weeks doesn’t help either, this being an allotment blog and all that, which left me a little bereft of things to write about.

However, not to worry, I made the effort to go down yesterday and take advantage of the lull between Wednesday’s monsoon, and today’s weather prediction that we may see a boat with animals on board floating past the window, some time during the day.

Now here’s a question for the boffins of this world. Why don’t  vegetables grow as vigorously, prolific and disease free as  common or garden weeds do? Can’t you get your ar**s into gear and do some transferences of genes or something?

I’ve only been away for a couple of weeks for God’s sake and the plot has turned into to a bloody rain forest of weeds !!!!. As I’ve mentioned before in these ramblings, I take great pride in keeping the place absolutely weed free, to the point some might say, that a psychiatrist could take a keen interest in my behaviour. So you can imagine my utter horror at the sight that greeted me.

For this session, my objective was to take down the runner beans and canes which had suffered in the recent winds, and were now all leaning over at precisely 45 degrees to the right as viewed from the shed.

It was difficult sticking to the task however, surrounded  by all this weed mayhem, and I kept wanting to just grab a hoe and start some serious decapitating. There was Groundsel and Shepherd’s Purse flowering everywhere and positively laughing at me, where’s that psychiatrist again. They wouldn’t have taken much sorting, but lurking amongst them were some real hard cases like Dandelion and Thistle, that would need digging out, so they all lived to see another day.

Eventually after about two hours, I succeeded in clearing the runners and canes and ended up with four bags of beans to bring home and dry out in the greenhouse, enough for my next years seed requirement and that of all other allotment holders within a 30 mile radius of where I live.

One thing of note that did happen last month, was my attendance at the monthly parish council meeting, to receive my certificate and gardening tokens for Best Kept Allotment 2010.

Admittedly I dillied and dallied about going, not being one for these sorts of things, and anyway, how would I cope with all that adulation and autograph signing. Well I needn’t have worried as all the real gardeners were called out before me, with their Firsts, Seconds, Thirds or Highly Commendeds in the open and closed garden sections, eight recipients in total. Some got to keep a silver cup for a whole year.

Eventually my name was called out as a sort of afterthought, and under the blaze of a digital flash I went up to get my reward. The presenter shook my hand as he handed me the certificate above (now proudly displayed on the fridge), and muttered something like “how the hell did you win it?” but which could have been, “well done on winning it”. He then went on to add “what a wonderful example of allotment keeping it was, with not a weed to be seen anywhere”.

If only he knew !

Give us a kiss.

Though I say it myself my beetroot are splendid again this year, and this is how I like it, on a freshly baked home made bread bun, deeelicious.

Don’t ask me why I have this success as I don’t do anything special to them, and use the cheapest of seeds that I can get hold of, Boltardy @ 49p a packet from our local cheap shop.

Maybe it’s the watering, as I do give them plenty on a regular basis when they are forming. Or could it be, (you organic disciples look away now please) the industrial strength ‘growmore’ I put on them.

Whatever it is, they have come great again, and it hadn’t gone un-noticed as I was about to find out.

No, not by the judges of the Best Allotment Competition, (have I told anyone yet that I’ve won it this year) but by the little old lady on one of the neighbouring plots.

I was down there the other day and had just picked a bunch of bonzers and a big swede to take home, when I heard her plaintive voice directed my way saying, “My beetroot haven’t done very well this year, have yours?”

Well I could hardly say no could I, standing there holding this great bunch, a couple of which that wouldn’t have looked out of place between the back legs of a prize bull.

“They ‘re actually very good”, I said, and seeing her longing look at the ones I was holding, I took the hint. ”Do you want some of mine”, I went on, holding them out to her.

“Oh how lovely, that’s very kind of you my dear”, she said, snatching them from my grasp accepting the offer with glee, “Can I give you kiss for them”.
 
Whaaat, a kiss !!!!!

Now here was a major problem, as I don’t do physical contact with relative strangers you see. Just going to the barbers brings me out in a cold sweat, and God help me if I ever have to see a proctologist.

Purleese, can’t we just shake hands and have done with it, I thought. But I could see her determination as she leant towards me puckering up, with a small dribble of saliva on her lips. The contortions of her mouth were so pronounced, as to put me at a serious risk of being hit by her flying dentures.

What was I to do, I thought?

Luckily she had her eyes tightly closed, and as she got closer and closer I panicked and put the swede I was holding where my cheek should have been.

Of course, I was disgusted with myself for my actions and must have been the same colour as the beetroot when she opened her eyes

I don’t think she noticed though, or if she did she didn’t say anything only that I needed a shave.

My flabber was gasted.

When I started my allotment it was with the intention of keeping costs to an absolute minimum, so that I could see a return for all those hours of labour put in. I wanted it to be in keeping with the old traditional allotment ethos. As a result, I have created a modest plot that is simple but efficient and though I may say it myself, is neat, well kept and stocked to full capacity.

However, I do admit that  I  look around at the plots of some of my neighbours with a touch of envy at times, green of course.

There are those that have taken out small bank loans to buy enough paving slabs to have perfect paths around their plots and between the beds. Whilst others have used their lottery winnings to purchase whole rain forests to make raised  beds.

Some have large new sheds, big enough to live in if their other halves ever kick them out, and made out of the best tongue and groove. Yes I have shed envy. They even have gutters and down pipes leading into not one, but two, water butts. How extravagant is that.

 One has a  lawned picnic area in front of a  shed adorned with beautiful hanging baskets, and a frame over the gate with a rambling rose growing up it. The family who have this plot come down in their droves at the weekend with petrol strimmers and rotovators whining away. They have it all spick and span in no time, and whilst I’m labouring away on my own with my trusty hoe cursing  the caterpillars, they’ll be cracking open the Stellas  at the picnic table and striking up the barbecue.

I sometimes wonder if growing vegetables has become a secondary function of their plots, the first being to impress the neighbours, and also, and more importantly I suspect, the judges of the Best Kept Allotment competition.

In contrast to all this, my paths are just plain trodden earth with  string to demarcate the individual growing beds. My humble shed was bought for the princely sum of £85, and had been reduced because there was a piece missing. It’s 6’x4’ and not big enough to swing a mouse around in it never mind a cat. I don’t have any manicured lawns or flowers, and the bench where I sit to eat my jam sandwiches is a simple plank of wood nailed onto two upright logs.Put it this way, they needed to have no fear of me winning the competition.

Anyway, I got home the other day to find a letter from the council on the doormat, and thinking it was an early bill for the rent, I opened it to see if they’d put it up.

Well you could have knocked me over with a feather, it was informing me with great pleasure that I am the winner of this years Best Kept Allotment in our parish!

Chuffin' eck, would you believe it !!!

The letter has also cordially invited me to the next parish council meeting in September to receive a whole £20’s worth of gardening vouchers and a certificate. I hope they don’t want me to make a speech !

Molluscophobia.

Picked a couple of cauliflowers today, and I was reminded that they were the first vegetables I ever attempted to grow.  Don’t ask me why, as they must be one of the most awkward and I didn’t particularly like them back then, but now I love them.

At the time we were a newly married young couple living in a ground floor rented flat that had no garden at all, only a small patch of bare soil at the back that barely saw any daylight never mind sunshine.

It was when the Good Life was on television, the first time around (God I’m getting old), and I fancied Felicity Kendal was hooked on the series. I wanted to grow vegetables just like they did and be self-sufficient, but I hadn’t got a clue what to do. I diligently dug this tiny bit of earth, bought a packet of seeds, carefully sowed them just as it said on the packet, and waited for what seemed forever.

I checked for signs of life everyday, but nothing happened, then to my surprise after a few weeks, some little seedlings eventually struggled through into what should have been daylight.

Oh how I nurtured those delicate little plants, and as I’d avidly watched Gardener’s World I knew I had to guard against weeds and slugs. There was no need to worry about weeds, as nothing grew there of its own accord, but slugs were another matter altogether.

The backyard where the patch was situated was both dark and damp, with ferns growing out of the wet wall where the guttering overflowed. It was a slug heaven if ever there was one and you could see their trails everywhere. Any stone or brick you turned over would reveal a family of the horrible things living under it and they even got into the kitchen through the air bricks.

Yes we had House Slugs, and more than once I trod on one at night making my way to the bathroom through the kitchen. I once went to get a knife out the cutlery drawer and the handle moved when I grasped it, Arghh !  Oh yes it was, and I developed something of a phobia of the things after that, hence the title above.

We tried, the usual methods like putting salt down, but that didn’t stop them, they just laughed and tossed it over their shoulders for good luck. Someone suggested beer, but they had a party and got pissed on it I think, it would have been better to just drink it myself and not be bothered about them.

So it was a constant battle to keep them off my precious little cauliflower plants, that were struggling for dear life as it was in those pitiful conditions.

Then one fateful morning I found just the stalks left, they had been devastated by a rapacious slug army. Not only had these evil molluscs damaged me psychologically for life, they were now trying to rob me of my inner farmer.

Thankfully I overcame this setback and went on to future vegetable success, but I never got over my fear and loathing of slugs, and I can be turned into a quivering jelly at the sight of just one, especially those big black ones that look like liquorice!!!!!

Divorce !

Well that got your attention didn’t it.


It’s that time of year again when everything seems to come all at once doesn’t it. I know I sound a bit ungrateful but I’ve got potatoes coming out of my ears, cabbages as big as footballs and enough peas to fill a swimming pool, not that I ever did that when I went swimming, disgusting behaviour.

The trouble is, in this season with this weather we don’t have that many ‘Hot Dinners’ as we call them, so it’s a struggle to use up vegetables from the plot. Meals are mainly salady type things or pizzas so I’m very thankful for the tomato crop in the green house, and the occasional curry uses some of the onions up, but the meat and two veg type meals just don’t appeal at the moment.

Last year we gave lots away to family and friends, but you knew they’d had enough when you heard the words, “Oh, another cabbage, thankyou so much”, and half expected it to hit you on the back of the head when you turned to walk away

Then we froze loads, eventually filling a second freezer that we’d invested in to bursting point and Mrs N made lots of cornish pasties that used up quite a bit, which also went in. She became so expert in the art of freezing, that I’m sure if we’re ever stuck for money, she could turn to cryogenics to make a living, if you’ll excuse the pun.

So the other day, it was time to turf out the vegetable freezer to clean it and prepare for this year’s onslaught and I was pleased to see most of the vegetables had been used up over the winter. Admittedly there were some left overs, for example a bag of experimental blanched potatoes that I don’t think we will bother with again, and some forgotten baby carrots that now resembled the mummified fingers of a venerated saint.

However, there were absolutely loads and loads of runner beans left over, and the sight of them appearing from the ice brought back vivid memories of last year. There I would be, returning with yet another carrier bag full, and that forlorn look would creep across her face as she saw me struggling up the drive with them. The neighbours were sick to death of them, we had frozen enough to supply Morrisons, and still they kept coming. What were we to do.

“Can’t we can get a few more in the freezer?”, I tentatively asked.

“What do you think it is, a bloody Tardis”, she replied, “The things full, and besides we’ll never use them in a million years”.

Well we would if it was a Tardis, I thought, you know time travel and all that, but thought it best to keep such flippancy to myself under the circumstances.

So here we were a year on, looking at all those runner beans, and Mrs N with a smug ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

Reluctant to throw them away, I suggested we could make a curry or soup with them, perhaps even brew some runner bean wine?

Her reply I’m afraid, is quite unprintable here, but included something about a divorce court if I bring as many home this year, and that bag of frozen beans could have done me quite a bit of damage if I hadn’t ducked in time.

Karma for Dummies

I was sat at the computer the other day having a nice cup of tea, and reflecting on the irony of allotmenteers being in so much conflict with nature, as you do. After all, are we not the first to appreciate the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and yet wage a constant war with creatures great and small in an effort to protect the fruits of our labour.

Take butterflies for example. Is it not a sheer joy to see a Peacock dancing about in a light summer breeze, or a Red Admiral lazing in the afternoon sun. Yet if I see a Cabbage White hovering near my brassicas, it instantly becomes an angel of the Devil, to be eradicated at all costs.

I don’t take any delight in killing things, and in reality chase butterflies away hoping they’ll hop over the fence onto my neighbour Jeff’s cabbages instead. After all you have to think about those Buddhist principles of not harming living creatures, because they may be the reincarnated souls of the dead. That big fat slug you’ve just squashed that was munching on your lettuces, might have been someone’s grandad once upon a time!

There’s also the Buddhist concept of Karma to take into consideration as well, something about a person’s ‘bad actions’ creating bad results for that individual. Could all this hostility towards nature be having a negative effect on me, I wondered? Is this why I keep getting scab on my spuds?

This one looked a bit more complicated however. I mean if I kill a slug eating a lettuce, it’s bad for the slug but good for the lettuce, right ?

Wanting to know more about Karma I looked it up on Wikipedia, but it started going on about ‘cause and effect’ and ‘volitional’ activities. My eyes started to glaze over and I got even more confused.

Then a Bluebottle with a chainsaw flew in through the open window, to remind me which insect I definitely don’t like, and why I’ll never be on the Dalai Lama’s Christmas card list. I tried hard to ignore it for a while, but the incessant buzzing eventually raised my blood pressure enough for me to have to take some action.

Having developed my own strategy for dealing with flies over the years, I picked up the A4 pad at the side of me and waited for it to land somewhere. I would then bring the said pad down quickly, but just far enough away from the beast, to cause it to take off and fly into the path of the descending weapon of execution. That way you get a clean kill and avoid spreading fly innards everywhere.

This normally works, but here I was dealing with no ordinary fly, I think it was the reincarnated soul of a Kamikaze pilot on speed, and it buzzed around the room with not the slightest intention of landing for the next 24 hours it seemed. It soon became obvious that my usual method would be useless and that I’d have to go nuclear, so I went for the fly spray instead.

Having eventually found it amongst the multitude of other sprays under the kitchen sink, I returned to the room, but the buzzing had stopped. The little bugger had taken advantage of my absence to hide and have a rest. I was sure I could hear it laughing at me but couldn’t see it anywhere.

Then, without warning, it flew straight at me from the direction of the window, at about 12 o’clock with the full sun behind it to dazzle me, and went for my head.

Luckily, I managed to get a shot in before diving for cover behind the filing cabinet, and from the safety of my bunker watched it flying around the room for quite a while, apparently unaffected, as it hunted for me. In fact it seemed to speed up, so much so that it passed through the sound barrier causing a sonic bang. Or was that me banging my head on the damned filing cabinet drawer I’d left open, as it went for me again?

Eventually after about 5 minutes its engines began to falter, and it had to make a spluttering emergency landing on the windowsill. Though it made several unsuccessful attempts to take off again, its time was obviously up.

Next, it did a very strange thing by flipping over onto its back and doing a break dance. I watched mesmerised as it spun and somersaulted in a macabre dance of death, that lasted about a minute, before suddenly stopping. Wondering if it was now dead, I waited a short while before prodding it with a pen.

It then did no more than spring back to life as if miraculously resurrected, and soared high into the air. Before finally, in what I can only take as a desperate act of revenge, it took one last gasp and fell to earth, straight into my bloody tea.

Ah ! now that must be what they mean by Karma then.

Beware of the Gnome

There’s a new Poundland recently opened in town, where Woolworths used to be, and every time we passed it Mrs Netall would suggest we go in, but I obstinately refused.

Being a true Yorkshireman, I’m the first to appreciate a bargain, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go in the place. Call me a snob if you like, but I wasn’t getting run over by one of those mobility scooters, or jostling with Frank Gallagher and his mates in the queue for anything.

Trouble is, I needed a small watering can for my seedlings, because she’s getting fed up of not being able to find her best gravy jug and giving me grief about it. Well we looked all over town but the prices were just so extortionate, I only wanted to water the things for heavens sake, not serve them champagne.

“They might have one in there”, she said, pointing to that dreaded place again as we passed, “They do have a gardening section you know”.

Now that was news to me, and my ears pricked up like a Jack Russel’s at the sound of the word “rats”. I had never thought that they sold gardening things, but then again I suppose even Frank might need some compost for his ‘special’ plants.

So taking a deep breath and casting all caution to the wind I crossed over the border, from Ingerland into Poundland.

Well I must say what a pleasant surprise I got, I didn’t get frisked on the way in, there was nobody selling heroin behind the checkouts, and there were normal people in there buying things.

There were everyday products on sale too with labels I recognised, like the cleaning things Mrs N keeps under the kitchen sink. I don’t know what she does with them, but I dare say if you mixed one or two together you could make a hell of a bang.

In fact I think there is an example of every cleaning thing known to man under there, and wonder if she ought to register with the Environmental Health people in case there’s ever a spillage.

Soon I was pointing out fantastic bargains on shelves to her, and saying things like “Look love, twelve coat hangers, only a quid”, and, “Wow, two hundred cotton buds, would you believe it”. But she just gave me one of those looks that said, ‘Don’t be so stupid, since when did you last use a coat hanger or a cotton bud’.

After passing some very dubious things in the entertainment section, such as the plastic bums and t*ts that were for sale, great for the next barbecue down a the site, I found the gardening products and it was like being a kid in a sweet shop who’s just found a fiver.

Eventually, I ferreted out just what I was looking for, a lovely little plastic one with a long spout, perfect for the job and in sunshine yellow too.

“Well, are you going to buy it then ?”, she asked, after watching me examining it for a while.

“I would if I could find out how much it is”, I replied, forgetting where I was for a moment. I looked underneath, inside, and even down the spout for the price label but couldn’t find one.

“Erm, I think there may be a clue in the name of the shop”, she said, pointing to the large sign just above my head.


I got a little carried away however, and started buying stuff that I didn’t really need but couldn’t resist.

I ended up with some blood fish and bone fertiliser, old John swears by it, a ball of string because you can never have enough string on an allotment, and two garden gnomes called Forest Fred and Fran.

Here’s Fran with her welcome sign, so she’s going near the gate.


And here’s Fred , he’s going next to my shed that was burgled recently!

Beans on toast.

Every Tuesday Mrs Netall and I venture into town to do a bit of shopping and pay our regular visit to the library. Not that I’m a big reader, its just that the diuretic tablets I have to take every morning start to kick in by the time we are passing the place, and there’s a toilet in there.

I’m not a big lover of shopping either, and usually end up forlornly waiting outside with tied up dogs, while she’s inside buying mysterious things. But if I’m patient and behave myself, she rewards me with a late breakfast of beans on toast and a mug of coffee at our favourite café on route.

Of course I could have beans on toast anytime at home, made with the freshest of home baked bread, real butter and only the best beans money can buy. But there’s something about our little treat that defies all culinary logic, because it shouldn’t but it does, taste delicious.

Is it the thin sliced white bread I ask myself, toasted by the plumber with his blow torch, who’s in the back fixing the sink. The quality varies, but sometimes it can be a work of art with a patch of white that radiates out through all shades of brown to a blackened perimeter. I once had a piece with the face of Christ clearly visible on it, could it have been that the Holy Toast was among us that day!

Or is it the beans ? Kept warm for at least 4 hours in a container on the hot plate, until they can only be served up with a cake slice. Sometimes they have peas on the menu, in a container next to the beans, and if you’re lucky you get some of those as well. It all adds colour to the appearance you see, and I’d give the counter staff 5.9 for artistic merit if it was a competition.

Then there’s the butter to consider, or whatever it is they put on the toast, its yellow anyway. Applied so thick I’m sure they’re doing a deal with the local heart surgeon, who’s trying to meet his government targets.

Obviously there’s a bricklayer working in the back with the plumber, who lends them a trowel to spread it on with, and I have been known to scrape off the un-melted excess and take it home in a serviette to grease the chain on my bike.

It’s not cheap mind, and they’ve just put the prices up! In fact the last time we were in I overheard an old lady saying to her friend, that if her mother were still alive today, she’d die if she saw those prices.

What the hell has all this got to do with allotments, I hear you ask.

Sod all really, so here are some gratuitous photographs of strawberries I picked today to compensate.


This bonzer weighed in at a full 2 ounces!

Thieves, Hares and the Microchip.

What a combination eh! It all happens down at our allotments.

We’ve had some thefts recently from quite a few sheds on the site, which was something of a double injustice for some of us. The old timers in their wisdom, advised us when we first got our plots that it was a waste of time putting a lock on your shed, because any potential thief would think there was something valuable inside and break in. Well so much for that theory, all the locked ones were left completely untouched !

I still haven’t worked out if anything was taken from mine as it’s a total tip, in fact I think the burglar opened the door, took one look inside and decided it was unsafe to venture any further.

Whilst a few of us were stood discussing what we would do with the intruder, if caught, and who would donate the actual cucumber, Mary arrived over at her plot.

Some moments later however, we heard her let out a blood curdling scream. Concerned, we looked over and could see her manically waving her arms about, and shooing something away.

“What’s up wi’ her”, said Old John “Has she found that burglar hiding in t'gooseberry bushes or summat?”

“It’s a Hare”, she cried, and we all cheered as she chased the thing from her plot, then down the central path towards us brandishing a cane. Knowing she is a retired teacher, I thought for a moment that she was going to punish all of us for laughing.

When I say chased, the animal didn’t look to be in too much of a hurry and kept stopping to let her catch up. Eventually it got fed up of waiting, sauntered off and hid under one of the parked cars.

“The damn thing was eating my lettuces, it’s no good I’ll have to get a gate”, she said as she reached where we were gathered, and seeing the chance of a natter gave up the pursuit.

Talking of gates, before long she was telling us about her daughter, who was away in Italy attending a wedding.

Afterwards she was then travelling the length and breadth of the country, alone, in a 14 year old Ford Fiesta! But wait, that wasn’t the interesting bit.

She went on to say that the wedding was of her daughter’s best friend to a young man whose father had, in Mary’s words, “invented the microchip”.

“ Blimey, that’ll be some wedding, I bet he’s not far behind Bill Gates financially”, I commented, genuinely impressed.

“ Bill Gates?” she asked, frowning and looking at me as if I was an idiot.

“That computer billionaire”, I replied.

“What’s it got to do with computers?” she went on.

“You know, microchips for computers”.

“Oh no…..”, she said chuckling, “not those…… the ones you put in the microwave from McCains…....his dad used to work there”.

Hmmm, I do sometimes wonder if she’s winding us up you know !

Dear Hosepipe

Dear Hosepipe,

Please forgive me for completely forgetting about you since last year.

Throughout those long winter months, there you hung limp and forlorn on the back fence, exposed to the vagaries of wind and weather, heartlessly unloved, when you should have been safely hibernating somewhere inside.
Even at the start of the growing season, I dispensed with the need for your undying services and used that pampered plastic watering can that’s kept in the shed, on my newly sown seeds.

For weeks and weeks I cast all cares to the wind and gambled on the weather to keep things watered. Sure enough, those ever grey leaden skies delivered the goods as regular as clockwork.

Then, as we got further into the growing season, the heavens began to fail, and despite my naked midnight rain-dances around the water butt, the allotment became as dry as a dead dingo’s donger, as they say in some parts of the world.

Imagine my horror that day, to find all the vegetables gasping like lost souls in the Sahara Desert. I’ll never forget those terrible scenes of baby carrots and beetroot begging for water.

Hurriedly I plugged you in and rolled you out, then expected you to perform immediately without question, before I got reported to the RSPCV.

So I can’t really blame you for springing that leak, but did it have to be at the delivery end just as I turned the nozzle on, and leave me pi**ing wet through for the rest of the day.

P.S.
I was surprised how much of the stuff you could actually dispense in those few seconds that I spluttered for breath, with the freezing deluge that hit me in the face. You certainly made your point, I’ll put you away next winter.

Tom Wetall.

The sun has got his hat on.

I don’t do hats, they just do not suit me. I have a theory that either my ears are too near the top of my head, or they make them too deep. Whichever, the brim always ends up resting on my ears, bending them over slightly and making me look a right prat.


Because of this, having the allotment has brought me up against something of a dilemma, sunburn. There is no shade whatsoever down there so I’m totally dependent on sun cream, and I hate it. After an application it’s not long before I resemble one of those old sticky flypapers, with greenfly all over my face.

And how the hell do you get it on to your scalp? It’s easy for all you follically challenged people out there, but not being bald does have its disadvantages you know. Putting it on my hair spoils that carefully coiffured look that I’m renown for, it’s called a short back and sides in the trade. So there I sit on the plot enviously watching all the others looking so natural and cool in their hats, while I bake like a sun dried tomato.

Whilst in town last week I decided to bring matters to a head, so to speak, and find one that I can wear and not scare the grandchildren.

The first I tried was the standard flat cap, as they were giving away mufflers and live whippets with them, and I’m always up for a bargain. It was similar to the one my father used to wear when he was alive, and when I looked in the mirror I jumped back, there he was staring back at me.

Mrs Netall tried her hardest not to laugh, but failed, “Try a baseball cap”, she suggested.

Now as far as I‘m concerned there should be a law brought in immediately to stop men over a certain age from wearing them. So not exactly taking the suggestion seriously, I put one on backwards and pretended I was riding a skateboard. It didn’t stay on my head very long, when she hit me with her handbag and told me to stop embarrassing her.

At one point I picked up one of those Russian fur hats. Apparently it's called a Ushanka, which could be rhyming slang for what I would look like in it I suppose, and translates to ‘Ear Flap’ hat. Well that would take care of my particular problem I thought, but soon put it down again when I saw her handbag hand twitching.

Lastly in desperation, I tried on a kind of bush hat in blue denim, that didn’t look too ridiculous I thought, even though it had a brim wide enough to shade a glass of Fosters, and was only missing the corks on strings.

“ But… I look like Crocodile Dundee”, I protested to no avail, as she dragged me off to pay for it.

So on the plot the first day of wearing it, I was feeling a little bit self-conscious but not too bad, until Old John came along that is. He was on his way to the water tap, and I was sure I could hear him whistling ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport’, as he approached my plot.

Pausing at the gate, he looked over to where I was doing some weeding.

“Summat’s been at yer cabbages I see”, he observed.

“Yes”, I said, “ I haven’t a clue what’s doing it”

“It’s them Koala Bears you know…. little buggers they are”, he replied, and with a toothless grin ambled off with his watering can.

A Thorny Tale.

The back lane.


I was given an unwanted bike by a friend the other week, so that I can do my bit for the environment and not go to the allotment in the car.

I’m not sure if this was a kind gesture on his behalf, or a practical joke!

Having not ridden one for years, just getting on the bloody thing nearly put me in hospital. I mean, I used to be able to mount a bike like a professional circus performer, but now it left me convinced I needed a hip replacement, such was the pain.

I waited for a day that was not too windy for my first attempt, after all I didn’t want to burden the local coronary unit unduly, and clocked myself setting off. It takes about 5 minutes in the car and 35 minutes walking, so I wanted to compare times.

The journey there went well and I made good progress, just over 13 minutes from our door to the allotment gate. I must say, these new gear arrangements are terrific, I’m only used to the old three gear Sturmey Archer ones. I actually got all the way up and over the old railway bridge without getting off once, but my legs were going round like a kiddie's windmill in a force ten gale, doing about 20 revolutions for every yard travelled.

My return journey was a bit more problematic unfortunately, starting with the scaring of a couple of walkers half to death, as I careered towards them on the narrow back lane. I made a mental note to adjust the brakes when I got home.

Glancing back, I could see they didn’t look too pleased trying to get themselves out that hawthorn bush. I couldn’t help noticing though, how wonderful the blossom looked on it at this time of year, and was so taken with the scene that I didn’t see the car hurtling towards me.

The back lane, as can be seen in the photo above taken earlier this year, is only one vehicle wide at best with a muddy verge and hedges of mostly hawthorn, along both sides. It’s an enchanting place with a real sense of spirituality and natural beauty about it, but now just wasn’t the time to appreciate such qualities.

By the time I did notice the car, just before the impending impact, I had to make a quick decision, do I play a game of chicken and force him on to the verge or do I get on to it. Soon I could see the whites of his eyes, and the unblinking determined look on his face, so a re-assessment of the situation suggested that it was me who got out of the way.

Risking further orthopaedic surgery I dismounted temporarily until he’d passed, but on resuming my journey noticed a distinct drop in the bike’s performance and the sound of rubber on metal. Looking down, I was horrified to see that the front tyre was as flat as a fart, as we say in Yorkshire!

I don’t know why, but we say it at every opportunity, whether its about the merits of X Factor singers or a badly pulled pint of beer that hasn’t got the obligatory inch of froth on top.

So there I was, punctured on my maiden voyage, and feeling a little deflated in more sense than one. Further investigation confirmed it to be a great big thorn from the hedge that had done the damage, similar to those the walkers had been pulling out of their backs and arms earlier, who by now were strutting passed me with smug smiles. There was nothing else left for it, but to push the damn thing all the way home.

“So, how long did it take you then?” she asked, when I got in the house.

“13 minutes there and 35 back…..” I replied panting, “ I’ll explain later, when I get my breath back”.

The Christening

Following on from the last post.

Family and friends gathered at the old village church with intermittent sun highlighting Forget- me-nots and Bluebells in the church grounds, and a threat of rain in the clouds above.


The glum regular parishioners eyed our merry group with some suspicion as we entered the church, until they spotted the beautiful Emma in all her christening finery to melt their hearts and remind them there was a baptism that day, some even smiled.

In true Church of England style, the building was freezing, and our breaths “like pious incense rose”, as the poem says. I know they are down to their last £500 million at the moment, but you'd have thought they’d put the heating on for half an hour for us hypocritical non-regulars, we are just not used to it. After all, some of these poor people should have still been in bed nursing a hangover from Saturday night.

The service went without any hitches, and Emma behaved impeccably throughout, until the vicar poured the water on her head. She didn’t cry however, but gave him a look that was a mixture of bewilderment and indignation, and if she could speak I’m sure she would have been saying, “What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?”

Of course it was down to Grandad to provide the entertainment, and he duly obliged.

At the end of the service, the Vicar made his way down the aisle shaking hands with everybody in the congregation. As he got to me he held out his hand and said “Pleased to meet you”. A little strange I thought, but how nice, so I warmly shook his hand and repeated “Pleased to meet you” back to him. He smiled, but looked a bit perplexed.

Back at the family gathering I noticed a small group, including my daughter, laughing quite loudly and looking in my direction, so I sidled over to see what the joke was.

“You know when you shook the vicar’s hand……what did you say to him”? She asked.

“Pleased to meet you”, I said, “like he said to me”.

“No he didn’t”, she told me, laughing even louder by now, “he was saying……. Peace Be With You”.

Ooops.

A very special occasion.

I didn't go to the allotment last Sunday due to a very special occasion, the christening of our 7 month old grand-daughter, Emma.

If one day you read this Emma, thankyou for making us the proudest of grandparents ever.

"May the strength of the wind and the light of the sun,
The softness of the rain and the mystery of the moon
Reach you and fill you.
May beauty delight you and happiness uplift you,
May wonder fulfil you and love surround you.
May your step be steady and your arm be strong,
May your heart be peaceful and your word be true.
May you seek to learn, may you learn to live,
May you live to love, and may you love - always."
--------------------------------------------

That manure's rubbish.

The road back to the allotment site, over the railway bridge.


I’m beginning to think I’ve become part of a surreal soap opera down at the allotments, and keep looking out for the cameras.

“Where you going with that barrow”? Old John called out to Mary, who was heading towards the gateway out of the allotment site. She retraced her steps, back to us.

“I’m going to that house for some horse manure”, she said gesturing towards the village, where a man has bags of it for sale on his front drive, marked up for a £1. I think he must have a paddock round the back.

By the way, the allotments are a good 600 yards outside of the village, and the walk there and back entails going over a fairly steep railway bridge (shown in the photo), so no mean feat for a lady of her years pushing a wheelbarrow. She doesn't drive you see

“I thought you went for some the other day” said John.

“I did…….” she replied, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “but it was all rubbish”.

My curiosity now raised, because I had been thinking of getting some myself, I asked her why it was, and if so why was she going back for more ?

“You’re not going to believe this, it could only happen to a silly old fool like me”, she said, self deprecatingly, and the story duly unfolded.

She had trudged all the way to the house with the wheelbarrow and knocked on the door, the man took the money for two bags, told her to help herself and closed the door. At this, she went to where the bags were and spotted the only two lots that were conveniently in tied black bin liners, the others all being in open topped old compost bags. Thinking they would be the easiest to handle on the barrow without spilling the contents, she took these and trudged all the way back to the site again. You may be guessing where this is going by now.

“Well, when I got back and opened them….”she said, red faced, “ they were both literally full of rubbish !”

She had only picked up two bags of household waste destined for the bin man, hadn’t she.

The French Connection

I planted out some Brussel Sprouts the other day, bought from the garden centre. One type was Brolin which I put in last year and were excellent, and another type, which caught my eye because it was an earlier maturing variety, called Breton.

As you may have seen from my previous blogs, I’m always on the look out for those little curiosities that can turn up whilst digging. Occasionally I have dug up things that look like coins but disappointingly never are, sometimes it’s a stone and other times it’s been a button. Well this time, whilst dibbling a hole for a sprout plant, the real thing turned up.

Here’s a shot of it still in the soil.(Click photo to enlarge)

This is it cleaned.
After a bit of research it turns out to be a 17th century French coin, issued during the reign of Louis the 14th. You can just make out the denomination, a Liard de France. Unfortunately, you can’t see the date, but by style it falls somewhere between 1650 and 1700.

Now back to the connection bit. It happened to be one of the Breton variety that I was planting at the time. OK, I know that’s a bit tenuous to say the least, and I could well have been planting out French Beans or sowing early Nantes carrots I suppose, however there’s more.

It seems that old Louis was more than just interested in gardens and loved his vegetables. So much so that he had The Potager du Roi (fr: Kitchen Garden of the King) created near the palace of Versaille, to supply the King's court. A massive enterprise covering 25 acres, “it required thirty experienced gardeners to tend to the garden plots, greenhouses, and the twelve thousand trees”(full Wikipedia article here), to supply the King’s court.

The Potager du Roi.
Now that's what you call an allotment.

Now that's a bargain.

It’s like the first Cuckoo call at the beginning of May.

“Shall we go to the carboot ?” she asked last Sunday morning. That inevitable little question we hear at this time of the year.

“But it’s going to rain, look at those clouds”, I try.

“We’ve got an umbrella, and you’ve just bought that new waterproof coat with a hood “, she reposts.

(Second attempt, try sympathy). “My knee's playing up a bit, I don’t think I’m quite up to it you know”.

“Rubbish, the walk will do it good, it’ll only seize up sat in that chair all day”. So much for sympathy then.

I thought of trying the Icelandic volcano as a last resort, but that might make it too obvious that I didn’t really want to go.

It’s nine o’clock, and on entering the field a wonderful aroma of mixed animal bits fried in rancid grease gets up my nostrils, and I can’t shift it all the time I’m there. Surely nobody’s eating them at this time of the morning I thought. But it’s not long before we’re passing a family scoffing burgers, that could only be described as biology lessons in a bun with cheese on. In a touching scene I catch sight of dad breaking a bit off for the dog, which helpfully licks his fingers clean, then breaking some more off for the toddler in the push chair.

Snaking our way around the tables full of this now unwanted ephemera, it strikes me how much rubbish we buy in our lives. There are countless figurines of sad little old men and women sat on benches, plates with flowers on and jugs from Majorca (didn’t it used to be Skegness).

I’m struck by how positive these sellers are, real “glass half full” types, because most of it would be better off in a skip quite frankly. I mean, who wants a rusty old Sky dish, or a jigsaw puzzle proudly labelled with, “Only one piece missing”.

At last something interesting, there’s a stall selling tomato plants, not that I need any as I’ve grown my own this year. It’s a bloody good job as well, 70p they wanted for them, and they weren’t even labelled up which variety they were. Daylight robbery if you ask me.

Sometimes there are bargains to be had and I suppose that’s what drives us to go to these events, but bargains are quite a subjective thing when you think about it. For instance I’d be very happy to find an old rake for a quid, and you might even squeeze another 50p out of me if it had a handle.

At a car boot I went to last year, a young lady I overheard speaking very loudly to her other half on her mobile, really summed it up.

“I’ve just picked up a brilliant breast pump for a fiver”, she told him delightedly !

The Sunflower Election.

I simply can’t make my mind up who to vote for in the general election, so I’ve come up with a solution. I’ve sown three sun flower seeds out of the wild bird seed bag, and whichever is the tallest on polling day will get my vote.

This method may not meet with the approval of any passing political activist, but given the antics of MP’s recently, it seems as good a way as any. If they can’t take it seriously then why should I ?

I’ve put Dave in some of the very best compost I had, I think he’d struggle in anything less.

Gordy looks as if he'll be the most demanding, and may turn out not to be sunflower after all, a thistle I suspect.

There's something else growing alongside Nick in his pot, I think I’ll call it Vince.

All I need now is some bull s--t to fertilise them all with.

Farmer Tom

The allotment 24th April 2010
I have a confession to make, I’m not really a very good gardener.

Don’t get me wrong, in all the many gardens we’ve owned, I’ve planted swathes of Alyssum, Marigolds and Petunias over the years, but never seem to have got it right. It always ends up looking like something the council has just done. In fact, this present house has an open plan front garden and we came home one day to find a young family having a picnic on the grass amongst the Busy Lizzies I’d just put in.

Growing vegetables on the other hand has always come as second nature to me, ever since watching The Good Life back in the 70’s, (Felicity Kendal had nothing to do with it). I remember my first attempt in a little flat we rented in Filey when we first got married, which was on the ground floor. I sowed some carrots into the tiny patch of soil round the back that never saw any sun at all. These poor spindly examples were a total failure and I had to resort to growing beansprouts in a jar in a cupboard instead.

As the years went on, the gardens we had grew bigger, and I have successfully grown vegetables in all of them whilst battling with the flowers.

Getting the allotment has brought this into focus somewhat, and these being new allotments it’s interesting to see how they are developing in this respect. All have their vegetable areas obviously, but the great majority have flowers planted, and even the occasional departed cat shrine (yes, she did), with a little ornamental shrub on top.

Mary's cat's grave.

However a staunch few are dedicated purely to the production of vegetables, and mine falls squarely into that category.

It has troubled me at times, and I never felt like a real green fingered gardener, maybe I lack the artistic gene I don’t know, but a book I am reading at the moment has solved the problem a little.

It is called A Handful of Earth by Barney Bardsley. The story of a lovely woman who sadly lost her husband at a relatively young age, and how she found solace through her garden and allotment.

In it she talks about there being two distinct sorts of people who grow things on allotments, the “Gardener” who grows flowers as well as carrots, and the “Farmer”, who’s regimented rows of vegetables make room for just the one flower, the cauliflower.

So there we have it, I am a “Farmer”, and it feels good to have an explanation after all this time, such a relief.

Where's Fred ?

Old Joe, Bob and myself were having a natter the other day on the site, when Mary came over looking a little sad.

“Can you bury a cat on your allotment ?” she asked, in all sincerity.

What a strange question I thought, did she go home that day and vent her anger on the poor thing ? (See last blog). Thankfully, she went on to give a somewhat teary eyed explanation.

Apparently her old cat was nearing his end and she was going to the vets to have him put down. But the cost of disposal was so expensive that she was thinking of other ways of getting rid of the body, and living in a flat with no garden limited her choices.

“Put it under yer rhubarb, it’ll grow like buggery”, was old Joe’s offering, ever the pragmatist but a little lacking in counselling skills.

“But I’m a bit worried a fox dig might him up again, I dread the thought”, she replied.

“Not if you bury it deep enough”, he said, “I remember when I buried Fred’s dog for him, in his back garden, he had a pacemaker”.

“What, the dog ?” she asked, without a hint of a smile.

“No…… Fred, and it wasn’t long I tell you before I buried him on top of t’dog”, he replied.

At this point I thought I’d entered a parallel universe, but things cleared a little as he went on to say that Fred’s widow, Ethel, had asked him to bury his ashes in an urn, near his beloved pet as he’d requested.

Eventually Ethel also died and as the family lived away, they wanted to take both parent’s ashes with them, and inter them nearer home. Of course they had Ethel’s, but where was Fred ? They knew he was in the garden somewhere, but there were no signs of a grave.

Luckily a neighbour heard of their plight and remembered old Joe digging in the garden that day, with poor Ethel by his side. Two and two were put together, and someone paid Joe a visit down at the allotments to explain their circumstance and ask the question.

“Oh he’s in t’rockery wi t’dog”, he told them to their relief, “But he’ll not be very happy being moved, he loved that animal you know”!

A woman's wrath.

Where else would you find Charlotte sharing a bed with the Duke of York, and that brazen hussy Desiree bunking up with Maris Piper (Billie's sister)? On my allotment of course, yes, all the spuds are now nestled comfortably into their beds.

Now for a little rant.

There I was working on the next beds, breaking them down into a fine tilth, what a lovely word don’t you think, when I noticed a large black car pull up in the parking area and disgorge an officious looking fellow. Seeing as I was the only one about, it wasn’t long before he had made his way down to my plot and stood at the gate. As I had my Ipod in, I thought I might get away with just ignoring him, but seeing him gesturing like a demented Orang Utan meant I had to acknowledge him. Care in the community just isn’t working I thought.

“I am the Councillor responsible for allotments and we have had a complaint about vegetable matter being deposited in the hedgerows, do you know anything about it ?” he boomed.

I tried hard to keep my composure. “ And your name is... ?” I enquired.

Realising he had broken the first rule of good customer relations, and that there is an election coming up soon, he replied “Parker…N.” of course I should have known.

Was that Nigel? Neil? or Nosy? I tried unsuccesfully to stifle the snigger.

“Are you enquiring as to whether I’m the culprit or the complainer”, I asked, genuinely confused, but it seemed to go straight over his head. “There’s a few old carrots and onions someone's dumped over there”, I went on, “But it’s hardly a hanging matter is it, they’ll rot down”.

“That’s not the point though, we can’t have people just dumping things everywhere now can we”, he pontificated.

“What about the parking on the road into the site, now there’s something worthwhile you should be investigating”, I protested. But to no avail, he was there to catch the carrot fly-tipper, and nothing would deter him.

By this time I was getting pretty wound up, when along came Mary, the lady who has the next plot, and before long she was getting the third degree, but not for long.

“I hope you’re not accusing me, my good man !” she said, with enough venom to send him on his way with a flea in his ear. “Pompous idiot” she added loud enough for him to hear as he went to have a look around the rest of the site.

Well she’s a nice quiet lady, and I was a little taken a back by her reaction. A while later, she had need to fetch some water from the communal tap, near to where little Hitler had parked his panzer.

Passing my plot on her return, she said, “You’re going to think I’m rather awful at what I’ve just done”.

“ I hope you haven’t let his tyres down Mary”, I said jokingly.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t do anything like that”, she replied, “But I did spit on his car though!!!”.

He must have really rattled her.

To Cleo

A young cat came into the garden this morning, skulking because he knew the territory wasn’t his. The owner was away on a long journey you see, so he could linger for a while and roll in the sun. He didn’t see me watching and being reminded of the old girl, who once frolicked and chased butterflies on that same grass when she was young.

He was lucky she wasn’t there. Cleo was her name, and though small she would have soon let him know of her displeasure, and with flailing claws sent him on his way. Then, licking imagined wounds, and with ruffled pride she would have settled back down again in the sun to fight another day. Until she lost the final battle that took her from us, forever.

He knew none of this, and didn’t care that it had once belonged to another, though he was very wary and could smell the void. Half expecting to be harangued at any moment he constantly cast an eye for the owner, or was it that he sensed her watching from afar.

Still now after all these years, my heart hangs heavy, and tearfully I sit here drawn back to her memory. From that timid little kitten, that hid behind the furniture when she first came to us, she grew into a loving pet that gave us many years of pleasure and fun. The children adored her, and grew up with her always being there, to chase, cuddle and tease with a ball of wool.

Eventually she tired of playing and became the sedate old lady that just wanted to curl up on a knee, and be stroked. She lived long enough to meet and be loved by our grandchildren, and sparked the desire for them to have their own pets. You want to warn them not to, to protect them from the day they’ll have their own hearts broken, but that’s impossible.

After all would I have all those sweet memories erased, to save me from these tears? No I wouldn’t, they are too precious.

Thank you Cleo.

Vive l'oignon.

Today, Ladies and Gentlemen, and any other sentient creature that may care to drop in, I would like to announce that the first crops have gone in.

Approximately 350 onion sets, of three different varieties, are now nestled into a couple of beds waiting for the birds to pull them up again. Actually I got away with it last year, but being ever the pessimist I’m sure it’ll happen this year.

The theory goes that the little blighters think they’re worms peeping up through the soil, and pull them up in the hope of a free snack. You’d think they’d cotton on after the first few and leave the rest alone wouldn’t you, but they don’t, so I suspect there’s also an element of avian vandalism involved, or even revenge.

When I gave my wife the good news, a concerned expression crept across her face.

“And how many have you put in this year ?”, she asked, in a tone not dissimilar to that used when asking how many pints I’ve had, on my return from the pub.

“Err, only about 300”, I replied, anticipating where she was coming from. I thought leaving the odd 50 off would somehow make it sound better, it didn’t.

“So we’ll have enough to last us about three bloody years then, and that’s after we’ve used the other 200 still hung up in the garage from last year”, she said. She’s very good at mental arithmetic you see.

Of course she’s right, I did over do it last year and resolved to aim for quality rather than quantity this year on the plot. But onions are just so easy to grow, you just plonk ‘em in, replant them once or twice after the birds have been round and “Voila”! you could supply a small french town, if you had a bike and a beret.

Now, what did I do with.....?

I had another walk down to the plot yesterday, across the green fields with birds singing all around, and would have arrived full of the joys of spring, if it hadn’t still been officially winter.

I went over to one of the other bloke’s plots to have a natter, who’s about the same age as me. After comparing notes on carrot fly and potato blight for a while, we got on to medical matters as people of our age tend to do sometimes.

When asked what tablets I was taking for the blood pressure, I told him it was the ones that make you pee a lot.

“Oh Bendroflouazide” he replied with a knowing air of wisdom to his voice, then added with a large hint of disdain, “But everybody’s on them though, aren’t they………owt else?”

“Statins”, I replied. Who was I to disappoint him.

“Ah, now my cholesterol's OK, you see”, he informed me, with an emphasis on the “my”, and a smug smile on his face.

I went on regardless, “And one of those ACE inhibitors as well, but can’t quite remember its name”, just to amuse him further.

With the same authoritarian tone, that by now made me want to piss on his cauliflowers the next time the Bendroflouazide kicks in, he said, “That’s one of the side effects of ACE inhibitors you know”.

“What is?” I asked tersely, a bit perplexed.

“Short term memory loss, I bet it’s Perindopril you're on”, he replied. Admittedly, the name did sound familiar.

Feeling a bit decrepit by now, I bid him farewell and wandered back to my plot with the intention of having a sandwich and a cup of tea from the flask.

Trouble was, I had forgotten to bring the damned bag with them in, hadn’t I!!!

Something to make your hair curl.

As a coincidence to the last blog, and in continuance of my “finds from the plot” series, here's a find I didn't post last time, shown in the pictures. The reason being, was that I had no idea what it was or whether it had any age to speak of.

It is made of a similar material to that of clay pipes and has a makers mark on the end, “WB” under a crown.



At first I thought I it was quite modern, a porcelain switch handle maybe, and then wondered if it was some kind of stamp for pottery making.

After a bit of research I have eventually tracked it down, and it turns out to be an 18th century Wig Curler, dating to around 1750. Or more correctly, half of one, the other end would have been exactly the same.

It seems they were used to curl wigs in Georgian days, by tightly curling the hair around them, dampening the wig, and then baking in an oven.

Apparently, the wearing of false hair, or “periwigs” reached its peak in France and England during the 17th and 18th centuries, and a great variety were for sale, together with the necessary accompaniments of a wig stand and wig curlers.


These curlers were made from pipe clay, some being hollow to allow heat to penetrate, and it is thought that they were made by pipe makers. The WB stamp is by far the most common of those found.

They are also found in America, for example on an archaeological dig at Ferry Farm, George Washingtons’s boyhood home, and here is a very interesting link for our friends across the water.
http://www.kenmore.org/ferryfarm/archaeology/arch_special/washington.html

Here you’ll see they found wig curlers with exactly the same makers mark, as this one found in a small corner of an English allotment. So as that old saying goes, it’s a small world isn’t it.

Independence.

We went to Filey on the east coast today, and had a walk along the front in the bracing sea air then up towards the gardens at the far end. When we reached the top I noticed the council had put up an information board about a famous sea battle that took place in the bay, between Britain and America no less. Apparently, in September of 1779, one John Paul Jones, an American of Scottish birth, took on the might of the British navy in the American War of Independence and won. In fact just to rub our noses it in, he also nicked one of our ships, his own being damaged, and scarpered off to Holland in it!

As we stood looking out towards Flamborough Head, I could just imagine the ships blasting each other at point blank range within the bay, and the carnage being caused. An epic battle between the nascent America and the government of Britain being waged just off our coast, who would have thought it.

So what has this got to do with allotments, I hear you ask.

Well it’s to do with the psychology of allotment holders, and what makes them tick. After all not everyone is as daft we are, to turn out in all weathers digging and weeding, and fight an endless war of attrition with countless pests and diseases. All to get a few vegetables that would cost half as much from the supermarket, if the true cost of the many hours of labour were accounted for.

So there must be something else, and I think it’s all down to independence.

Most allotment holders seem to have a strong desire to work their own piece land and grow their own vegetables, in an act of almost defiant independence of “the system”. It’s like sticking two fingers up to the hegemony of the supermarkets, and the officialdom that took away our rights to land for the benefit of today’s elite rich landowners.

Now back to that battle - John Paul Jones was just one of many thousands of people at the time, who moved to a new country in search of independence and to own their own piece of land. Admittedly, many were forced by circumstance, but many were not, and they all took their chance, in the hope of having a piece of earth they could call their own. So strong was this desire, that they took on the old system and won their nation’s independence, through the bravery of men like this.

So I’d like to think that we humble allotment holders, have a little bit in common with these early pioneers, in retaining and nurturing that same strong sense of independence, and woe betide those bloody councillors if they try to put the rent up this year!

Which Path ?

I actually walked down to the allotment yesterday, and as I strolled along humming to my Ipod and wondering what people were laughing at, I got to thinking about paths. Now I know many of us ponder on where life will lead us, and which roads we will take in our quest for fulfilment, but it wasn’t anything as profound as that. No, it was the paths on the plot I was thinking about, and what I’m going to do with them this year.


The thing is, I think I’ve developed a bit of an O.C.D. problem with the allotment! Everything has to be in straight lines set in the four equal quadrants, and each plant will be measured out to the nearest inch. Even the shed has been lined up precisely to the four points of the compass, so much so that any practising Muslim would have no problem finding Mecca. I’ve told the wife about this and she is patiently waiting for the disorder to transfer itself to the house, bless her.

There’s only the paths left now to sort, not that they haven’t been precisely measured out, but the sides keep crumbling away and loosing that straight crisp edge that just looks so good, like a crease in your trousers. They need a more permanent surface, but shall it be paving slabs, bark chippings, or gravel.

There is, however, a major problem with all of these potential solutions… Expense. After all, I am a member of our Tight Wad Allotment Team, or T.W.A.T for short, as my wife kindly points out.

So what about grass, I thought? Can’t be more than a couple of quid for seed, in fact if I transplant some of the lawn from the front of the house, it would be even cheaper, though the divorce expenses might cancel that out.

Trouble is, how would I cut it? There’s no power for an electric mower, and the petrol one would be a pain to get there. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, what about one of those push along things, but have you ever tried one? Put it this way, I would happily be run over with one whilst sunbathing nude in the front garden, if there’s any grass left, and have no fear of loosing any of my appendages.

As I neared the plot I passed a field with some sheep in. Hmmm, now there’s a thought, if I could borrow one of these every couple of weeks, the problem would be sorted, but so would my vegetables, me thinks.

The one with the dyed hair and ear piercings looked cool, as the grand kids would say, and I half expected it to have an Ipod.

What would it have been listening to I wonder? “Ewe were made for me”, perhaps.

Showing my age now aren’t I. Think I’ll shut up!

Humble Weeds.

Let’s hear it for the weeds.

Not the Grumbleweeds or the Tumbleweeds but the good old honest humble weeds. Those little plants that, sadly, just happen to be growing in the wrong place.

We pursue them to oblivion with hoe, spade or chemical weapons, whilst pandering to our F1 hybrids and half hardy annuals, yet rarely give a thought to what they actually are. So I decided to photograph one or two, before decapitating them, and look up what they are.

This is one of the Speedwell family. I’m not sure which one as there are so many, but they all belong to the genus Veronica. Named after St Veronica who is supposed to have wiped Christ’s forehead on the way to the cross, and later found his image on the cloth. According to folk lore, you will get your eyes pecked out by birds if you pick the plant ! The name Speedwell is probably to do with the supposed many healing properties of the plant, which included use as a blood purifier, for skin irritation, smallpox, measles, cancer, kidney complaints and just for good measure, it can also be used for sore eyes.

Here we have Shepherd’s Purse. So named because of its delicate triangular seed case resembling a shepherd’s purse of old.. It came originally from southern Europe and western Asia, and those purses are so prolific that it has spread all over the world as far as North America. Again, it has been used medicinally for hundreds of years, mainly as a means of stopping bleeding both internally and externally, for example haemorrhoids !


This little plant is an immature example of the Spear Thistle, and you can already see the needles. When I first got the plot, there were some mature plants that were real monsters, with tap roots that went down to Australia and spikes making it well worthy of it’s name. All parts of the plant are apparently edible, if rather bland, though there wouldn’t be much left after removing those spikes. Fibres from the plant can be used for paper making, and the fluffy seed heads make excellent tinder for fire making. Medicinally, a poultice can be made from it to treat arthritis.

So there we have it, from my little plot I can make some paper or a fire, treat my arthritis, and if the need ever arises, even treat my piles !

Get off my land.

I was napping, sorry digging, on the plot the other day, when I was startled by the sound of a low flying aircraft overhead. It was that low in fact, it had me running for cover thinking I was in bloody Pearl Harbour!

Luckily I had a brown paper bag in the shed, and after I’d stopped hyperventilating I realised it was on a training run, testing the radar at nearby Staxton Wold RAF Station which is just to the South of us. Night and day these people scan the skies over the North Sea, protecting our territory from those nasty Russians. Don’t they know that they can come over here on ferries now, with visas.

As it happens, just to the North of our allotments (See above photo) I can see an archaeological site where people were doing a similar thing, 4000 years ago. Here there are ancestral burial mounds and massive boundary earthworks, that were meant to send out a clear message to any newcomers, that this was their territory, “Keep Off”.

Now when we first got these plots they were marked out just with pegs by the council, and the first thing everyone did was to put up a fence around theirs, and woe betide anyone who tried to pinch a bit from someone else.

Of course it was to keep those damn rabbits out, wasn’t it ? Well no, I suspect there was a little more going on than that. It was that same vital urge to claim their territory, that’s been going on since those first farmers settled this land.

So I sat back down in my little bit of territory, keeping a wary eye out for any more suicidal kamikaze pilots, and thought, “nowt’s changed much as it”.