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 !