Alley Alley Aster.

Remember when as a child you watched those first snow flakes tantalisingly start to fall, and wished with all your heart and soul for it to keep going. We had a rhyme for the occasion, and our little street gang would all look up to the skies like a bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses on judgement day, chanting “Alley Alley Aster Snow Snow Faster”.

Not exactly a Keatsian eulogy I know, and I’ve no idea who Alley Aster is, but we believed that if said repeatedly and long enough with increasing volume it could affect the weather to our advantage.

Sometimes it worked and we’d be rewarded with enough snow to go sledging down the roly-poly hill, so called because in dryer weather you could do a roly-poly down it, hoping you didn’t go through any dog muck.

Anything would do as a sledge, a bit of old lino, a redundant milk crate, or if you were lucky, a ‘real ‘ one made from some old wood with six inch nails, that would have the elf  ‘n’ safety police round today.

Pulling sleeves down over numbed hands, we’d have snowball fights with the enemy kids from the next street, who had some good shots and if you weren’t careful you’d cop for one right on your lug ‘ole, leaving it throbbing for a good ten minutes.

Arriving home, looking like a drowned chimpanzee with sleeves trailing to the floor, you’d get a clout on the other ear for not coming in and putting some ‘proper’ clothes on. “You’ll get double pneumonia you will my lad!”,  my Mother would say, with a dire warning not to put reddened feet  too near  the fire, for fear of getting the ‘hot aches’.

Sadly, when it snows these days such childhood nostalgia gets washed away in a tide of pragmatism, and now I despair at not being able to get things done down at the plot for example. Oh, and when I did that triple lutz the other day, whilst clearing the footpath yet again, I could have strangled that bloody Alley Aster!

The Birds.

I’ve never been that interested in orny orni birds, but I do like to look after the ones in the garden, and so can regularly be seen putting my fat balls out for them on a cold winter’s morning.

Also, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve become hooked on a computer game called ‘Angry Birds’over Christmas, on Mrs N’s new Kindle that she got as a present. When I first saw the title, I did wonder how they could possibly make a game about drunken women having a punch up on a Saturday night, until I discovered it was about lobbing explosive cartoon birds at pigs heads!

Well, the other day I’d just completed level three with a new highest score, when those dreaded words rang out that send shivers down my spine, “We need to get on with some decorating”, she said.

Mmmm, perhaps now’s a good time to put the game down, get off my now fatter a**e because of the Christmas excess, and pay my first visit of the year to the plot, I thought. She was a ‘not too pleased’ bird, rather than angry as I left.

Not long after arrival I was  joined by a visitor looking for a free snack. No, it wasn’t old Bob cadging my chocolate digestives again, it was a Robin redbreast. Now I’m not one for superstitions, apart from avoiding walking under ladders or breaking mirrors, oh and having to put my left shoe on first (don’t ask), but the sight of a Robin I take as a good omen. So I’m hoping this means that next year will be better one on the allotment, after the blight ridden wash-out we had last year.

A good omen ?

Then I went to get the fork from the shed to do some digging, and was met by a real angry bird. It was a little wren that must have been roosting in there, and as I opened the door it nearly scored a hundred points just missing my head as it flew out screeching. It's Karma again, I'm telling you.

Sadly it soon started to rain, again, so I reluctantly had to abandon the digging and return home. “ I think I’d like it in Magnolia”, she said.

Less is more.

In an effort to avoid using farmyard manure because of the dubious qualities of some you can get, I religiously compost everything I can down at the allotment and also from the garden and kitchen.

When I say religiously, I don’t mean I say a prayer over the compost heap every Sunday morning, when I take stuff down. Though, I have been known to ask my maker to not let there be any rats under the old carpet covering, when I take it off.

No, I mean that every scrap of compostable material that we produce, including lawn cuttings, leaves, paper towels, cardboard and even blog bog roll tubes are diligently saved for the heap,

It all adds up to a very big pile at the end of a season, positively spilling over from my pallet bins, like some classical cornucopia of decaying matter.

But where does it all go, because when I come to use last year’s, the pile will have shrunk to next to nothing and I’m lucky if I get a couple of barrows full from it. Once again, at digging time, I’ll be left looking at those great steaming piles of manure belonging to my allotment neighbours, with green eyed envy and ever diminishing standards.

Whilst wheeling some of my precious material in the barrow the other day, I saw old Bob looking over the top of his manure pile.

“You want to get some of this stuff on it ”, he shouted over, casting a disparaging eye at my pitiful barrow load, “best cow s**t for miles”.

As he hadn’t actually seen me get the barrow load from the compost heap, and so didn’t know exactly what it was, I decided not to be out done.

“Ah but this is very special stuff ” I told him,

“Oh, what’s special about it then ?”, he asked.

“It’s from a bull and because it’s more concentrated you don’t need use as much”, I told him, with as straight a face as possible.

(Sorry about the picture quality, the camera was shaking for some reason)

For a fleeting moment I had him, then the penny dropped.

“What a load of Bulls**t”, he said, and ambled off to continue with his digging.

Rest In Peas.

It was a lovely sunny morning when Grandma was driving three year old Emma to nursery recently.  Munching away on a biscuit, and no doubt dropping crumbs all over my newly cleaned car, the little one spotted a man on a tractor ploughing a field.

Emma....“What’s that mister doing over there Grandma ?”

Grandma....“He’s a farmer sweetheart, digging his soil like Grandad does ”.

Emma....“No Grandma, Grandad’s not a Farmer”.

Grandma....“Well what is he then darling ?”

Emma....“He’s an Allotment, silly”.

Well I never! Stereotyped by a bloomin' three year old, I ask you !

When Grandma told me this little anecdote, I was quite amused, but it also set me thinking.

Is this how I’m seen now by my family in my later years, and what’s more, is this what I’ll be remembered for when I’m gone, having an allotment ?

What about what I did in my working life, will I be remembered for that? and am I not now a writer blogger, guitar player and local historian even (well I do find old things on the plot).
 
All these other talents so obviously invisible to this poor unfortunate child, perhaps I need to work on my image a little more before it’s too late.  

But you know what they say, “out of the mouths of babes” and all that, and I suppose I ought to be grateful really that she doesn’t describe me as a pub or a betting shop. But please little Emma, if I am to be an allotment in your eyes, can I be a well tended, fertile and productive contribution to the horticultural world, and not the weed infested and pest ridden entity that I am at the moment.

Now I’ve thought about it  I quite like the idea, and I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad after all to be remembered for my allotment  by my family when I’m gone, or even as one by Emma. I can just see it now :-

                                         

50 Shades of Shed.

I recently repainted the allotment shed, and with these new wood treatments now being available in such a range of bright colours, gone are the days of painting your shed in either dark or light creosote. The world is now your rainbow, and you can be as flamboyant as you wish. But what does your choice of shed colour possibly say about you?

There's 54 actually.

Quite a few of these colours, from a big company's ‘Shades’ range, I think would match  some of the characters down at the allotment site.

For instance there’s :-

OLD ENGLISH GREEN  - A nice chap who’s getting on a bit, with a well to do accent and likes cricket.

SOMERSET GREEN - Re-cycles his many empty plastic cider bottles as miniature cloches.

WILLOW - Always borrowing something or other, and never brings it back.

WILD THYME - She’s the life and soul of the annual on-site barbecue.

PURPLE PANSY -  Not afraid to show his feminine side.

MUTED CLAY -  Keeps himself to himself, and never seems to move much from his deckchair.

BARLEY WOOD  - Would she? Can you introduce me please.

FRESH ROSEMARY - Has a bit of a personal hygiene problem.

SEA GRASS - Will smoke it.

FOREST MUSHROOM - A friend of Sea Grass.

FORGET ME NOT -  Seldom remembers to turn the site water tap off.

PALE JASMINE -  Doesn’t grow brassicas and should, because she’s obviously lacking iron in her diet.

HOLLY - Prickly old b*gger with red pimples on his nose.

COASTAL MIST - Can be seen to drift in and out a few times around early summer, then you don’t see him for the rest of the year.

JUNGLE LAGOON - Has what was once an ornamental pond, that’s now covered in blanket weed .

DEEP RUSSET - Forever hoisting his baggy trousers up. Oh sorry! I thought it said gusset.

“And what about Tom Netall, what has he picked ?", you may be wondering.

Well it’s SEASONED OAK for me (that’s Dark Brown by the way) - Stoic and not one for showiness, but obviously a tight old sod, as that was the one reduced down at the local DIY store!

Leeks and Leaks.

I was dispatched to the plot a couple of weeks back by Mrs N, to see if there were any leeks ready yet, to make her delicious leek and potato soup.

To my delight, there were some big enough, and I'd just started to lift them when it started to rain. Not just any old rain, but M&S rain, the type that marinates and saturates you to the skin.

The leeks, on a sunny day.

It was ok though, as I have a shed, not just any old shed, but a B&Q shed, from that place where you buy something then have to queue for ages to pay for it!

In the shed is a folding canvas chair, not just any old...........no I won’t do it again, I promise........so I decided to sit it out. But I hadn’t noticed the chair was wet, from one of a few leaks that have recently appeared  in the shed roof, that I haven't got round to fixing.

All was well for while, and I entertained myself  watching others scurrying around the site, who haven’t got sheds, get thoroughly soaked. They are cheap enough at B&Q  after all, so it serves them right, skinflints!

Then slowly an awareness of dampness crept in down below, as the wetness from the chair infused the three layers of clothing I had on, right through to underpants. I’d given up going commando a while ago, after the thistle incident, but that’s another story.

For a moment I seriously thought I’d reached that age we all dread, until I realised what had happened, and with a sigh of relief ventured out, seeing as the rain was stopping, to carry on what I was doing.

Very soon however,  the increasing discomfort  forced me to pack in and head home before a testicular form of trenchfoot set in, trenchcrutch I think it’s called.

“Have you got any leeks then ?”, she asked, as I entered the kitchen, walking like the geriatric incontinent I thought I’d become earlier.

“Leeks? Oh I’ve got leaks alright”, I said, “ Loads of ‘em, in that bloody shed roof !”.

P.S.
I was reminded of this incident the other day, when I spotted these in the local supermarket. Don't know how you would use them, but it's enough to bring tears to a man's eyes just thinking about it !

Season of Fumes and Awful Noisiness

They were definitely biting at the bit the other morning down at the site, and off to a flying start just after I got there.

The favourite, ‘Lofty Len’ (he keeps pigeons), was the clear early leader down broad bean straight, making good use of the soft going. ‘Effing Phil’ (who swears alot) soon caught him, but pulled up limping near the cabbage patch, and was last seen inventing new swear words in his shed. ‘Cucumber Col’ (always grows the biggest) turned out to be a bit of a dark horse, and came from behind to the front of the pack. Not to be outdone however, the ‘Merry Tiller’ (he’s always so  happy !) made a  strong late run to be declared the overall winner. Unfortunately, failing a drugs test he was later stripped of the title, but at least we now know what those ‘exotic’ plants are in his polytunnel and why he's so bloody happy all the time.

Yes it’s that time of the year again folks, when the rotovators come out.

Whilst appreciating the effectiveness of these modern day machines, the noise and fumes emitted from them negate what allotmenteering’s all about for me, fresh air and quietness.

I prefer to dig by hand, which is just as well seeing as I don't own a rotovator, and find it quite satisfying turning the earth on an autumnal morning, at a gentle pace of about 30 groans per minute.

Occasionally stopping to survey the results of my sweated labour, I’ll look upon the scene with a sense of wonder.....just where do all those large stones keep coming from each year ? And whilst lamenting the lack of toilet facilities on the site, nip in the shed for a quick pee.

No, you can keep your white man’s machines as far as I'm concerned, I’m sticking to the old method as long as I can.

Now I must go and find that Merry Tiller, I need to see him about some, ahem, seeds.

Curliness

I have an 8 year old grandson, he's a good lad but he is a very fussy eater.

Going back some years, there were few problems and he would eat a wide variety things. In fact he once swallowed a 20p coin whilst imitating his grandfather's magic trick!

But now, much to his mother's despair he will only eat a small number of food items, mostly consisting of reconstituted chicken in its various guises, such as "Chicken Nuggets" and "Chicken Goujons" (they're chicken nuggets for posh kids). Oh and baked beans.

As far as real vegetables are concerned, offer him anything remotely green on his plate, and you’d  think you had served him the severed head of John the Baptist !

Furthermore, and I know this is absurd, he even winces at that staple of most children’s diets today, chips !!!

But here's an interesting thing. Out there is a particularly strange food commodity, designed less for nutritional value than to make the producers lots of money, called “Curly Fries”. They're basically nothing more than thin curled chips as far as I can see, and my grandson loves them.

So you can take some thin chips, deep fry them, then add a final flurry of curliness and they suddenly become irresistible to him !

I wonder how they do it ? Is it something similar to how you can curl paper by pulling it against a knife edge, or perhaps they pass an electric current through them. Have they used genetically modified potatoes with a curly gene added? I just don’t know.

So would the novelty of curliness work with other things he isn't keen on, I asked myself ?

I know there are curly kales and cabbages, but I don't grow them, so this year I have produced just the thing to try out on him.........

                                              Curly Runner Beans.

Don't ask me why they've grown like this, I haven't clue. Maybe they were too close to the spring onions.

Getting a bit philosophical.

In Plato’s theory of Idealism, all objects have an idealised form. Take a table for example, there are many types of table but they all have similarities that make them tables, therefore it could be argued that there is a sort of  “tableness” belonging to them all.

So what about garden hoes, (as opposed to the one third of a Santa’s laugh type of hoes), do they have “hoeness” ? 

If they have, then it would seem that the gods have got the width bit wrong.

Because search as I may, all the ones I’ve found are  too narrow, and inadequate for my war of attrition against returning weeds in the recently cleared areas of the allotment.

Just days after clearing an area, the weeds, especially grass seedlings, are back and a 5 inch wide blade just isn’t big enough for the job.

So at the risk of upsetting all the Platonists out there I have created my own, with extra width, a sort of Superhoe you might say with a 20 inch blade. One push is now equal to 4 shoves with the old one.

Superhoe

Thankfully I have very light soil which lends itself to easy hoeing, and this is what the plot looked like last Friday after giving it a good going over with Superhoe.

The plot

The question is, does it still qualify as a hoe in the Platonic sense ? It has a handle and a blade, but it looks more like it should be used for cutting hay or something. 

If it doesn’t there’s not much I can do about it is there, so hey hoe I’ll just get on with the weeding then and not worry too much about it.

The Battle Of Netall's Plot

“We shall fight amongst amongst the carrots, we shall fight in the cabbage patch and in the turnip beds, we shall fight on the paths, we shall never surrender.”

Before the Battle

 I don't wish to disparage Churchill’s famous speech in any way, but if he’d been an allotment holder, faced with the invasion of weeds that I have this year, he might well have said that.

As already mentioned, the house move and taming of a new garden has meant some neglect of the plot, and a few weeks back I decided to tackle it.

My plan for this year was to leave a large area fallow, and skim off the weeds as they appeared, but that idea soon went belly up as the more invasive weeds took hold, so I decided to strim it.

“It’s easy”, said the Son in law, as he handed me the machine he’d lent me, “ just press that and pull this, and Bob’s your uncle”.

I asked my  neighbour Bob if we were related when I got down to the plot, but he just looked blank and watched with mounting interest as I tackled the strimmer.

I followed the instructions religiously, checked petrol, set choke, and  pressed knob three times as instructed (stop giggling at the back there), but when I pulled the string, nothing happened. So I pulled again, more vigorously and prolonged this time, but still nothing. After about ten minutes of pulling and swearing, I gave up exhausted and sat on the bench.

All the while I could feel Bob’s eyes on me, and eventually he muttered, “If it’s owt like mine you’ve got to flick that red switch on’t top, to ON”.

What red switch ? The Son in Law never mentioned any red switch !  But he was right, on inspection there was one and it was in the OFF position !

Having now started at the first pull, it stalled straight away as it got hold of my trouser leg and worried it like a demented terrier, but eventually I was on my way.

After about an hour of attacking everything in sight I took stock, and although there was some effect it was not as much as I’d expected. There were weeds in that patch that would have withstood a flame thrower, never mind a strimmer.  The stalks of thistles stood laughing at my attempt to mow them down,  and I could see the couch grass re-growing as I stood there.

The enemy, Couch grass.

Also, I was covered from head to foot in flayed vegetable matter, and stinging from the pebble shrapnel being thrown up, that even had Bob ducking 20 yards away.

So I gave up and dug it all over instead, which took quite a few days.

The dead and dying

It was a long hard battle, but surveying the dead and dying enemy baking in the midday sun, I knew it was worth it in the end.

The Victor

A sad realisation.

Having a break from weeding the other day, my allotment neighbour Bob and I were discussing the quality of the manure he'd just had delivered, when our conversation was interrupted by another nearby plot holder sounding a bit irate.

It was Joan, who was brandishing her mobile phone and ranting something indecipherable, as she came briskly through my plot gate towards us. All I could make out was, “Bloody Farmers”!!!  She was reading what turned out to be a text from her daughter.

To put a bit flesh on the bones of this, fields of commercially grown potatoes surround our allotment site at the moment, and the Farmer has been spraying them regularly with a chemical against blight.

Joan it transpired, had found out what it was and after inhaling a lung full one day, which she swears has taken a decade off her life, had asked her daughter to look the substance up on the internet.

When she reached us, she read out a long list of ailments that you could expect to get if you came into contact with it, which was quite alarming. To a rising crescendo she finally told us in all seriousness that, “ it can also affect your fertility, you know “!

Now, at one stage in my life I would have been concerned about that, but seeing as all of us present were well past our sell by dates, with a combined age of about 190, it just seemed funny.

Bob sniggered, “Well that won’t bother any of us old buggers then, will it”. I sniggered along with him and Joan followed eventually as the penny dropped.

But as our laughter subsided, there was a bit of a silence for a while.

Then Joan replied sadly, “No, I don’t suppose it will anymore", and we all just sighed and went back to our weeding again.

  

Rambling On

I’m back, no excuses, so as Led Zeppelin would say let’s Ramble On !

Having moved house during the blog’s hiatus, I now have the responsibility for the upkeep of a fair sized garden as well as the allotment, and being more of a farmer than a gardener (as I explained here), it’s taking some coming to terms with.

I suppose you could call it a cottage garden, in that there are many beds of  “herbacious perennials”, as they say on Gardeners World, which I really don’t know much about. Here's a couple of shots from earlier in the year.

My inner control freak is telling me to just dig them up and replace them with something more manageable, like turf ! However I am resisting the urge, and just letting things be for this season, whilst I at least learn what things are.

As a consequence, the allotment, which has been a little neglected this past year, is getting a spring clean, in summer, to within an inch of its life. You can almost see the weeds cowering as I march down the plot with freshly sharpened hoe at the ready, passing my trusty leeks standing proudly to attention.     

As for the snails, that have been having a field day with the wet weather and my laziness of late,  weapons of molluscular destruction have had to be deployed, yes slug pellets. I’m reluctant to use them, but however many lettuce munchers I chuck into next doors plot, they never seem to diminish.

Talking to one of the old fellas, he tells me that they actually return home to the plot, “you know, like pigeons”, he said,  and that he’d actually done an experiment where he’d marked one with some nail varnish , took it a good distance from his plot, and within a day it had returned. 

Now that’s just weird, I mean, what the heck’s he doing with nail varnish down at the allotments !

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 !

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!

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 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.

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.