Saturday morning; the sun is warm, the allotment is calling and we can’t keep putting off the planting of the seed potatoes. The assortment of boxes and cobbled together cardboard containers holding the chitting beauties that is taking up a coupla square yards of space – in what is still known as Becky’s Room – has to be dealt with.
So, on returning from dropping five bags of ash and willow logs off at mom’s (and checking she is OK), we head up to the plot. It has been a long time since we have been up here. The boundary dispute is still going on, neither the allotment committee nor the parish council are any nearer reaching an agreement with the neighbouring house owner, who has removed the hundred and something year old hedge (and wildlife habitat/ corridor).
But the winter digging, leaving the ground turned over and higgledy-piggledy with lumps and bumps, has had a demonstrable effect: the soil is friable, relatively weed (We have made a tongue-in-cheek vow to call those that grow “green manure*” from now on) and hoeing out the lumps and bumps is pleasant in the warmth of the spring sun. Of course, that yearly addition of organic material has added something too and, as I work (with an ingenious tool fashioned from bent-tined digging fork), hoeing the clods out and level, filling in dips, smoothing out hillocks I see minibeasts scuttling about: centipedes, millipedes, a wood louse or two, a few ants a couple of snails (lobbed unceremoniously into the roadway hedges). So, the soil is warm too. And, pleasingly full of earthworms that will continue their own cultivation of the ground, aerating and draining it. Plus my first ladybirds of the year, creeping out of a pile of blackcurrant prunings that’ll need burning. The potatoes are rotated and this year will go into the wider plot. True to say that, though all plots cost the same, they are not equally sized, having morphed over the hundred and nearly fifty years of the plot’s life time (so far). The extra width means we can get ten potatoes in a row (earlies anyway) as opposed to seven in the next plot. So four rows of Rocket seed potatoes go in. Each into a trowel dug hole with a scattering of branded organic potato fertiliser and the ubiquitous chicken manure pellets. This ground had home-made garden compost dug into it at the end of last season too.
There is some other tidying up to be done as we work …
… and it feels good. Like meeting a friend you haven’t seen for years – and taking up exactly where you left off.
We head for home and over-night the hour changes. We enter the golden world of evening sunshine, losing an hour’s sleep; especially since we stayed up past mid-night to watch Everest, a based on real life tragedy that befell climbers in 1996. Coincidentally I have been reading White Mountain by Robert Twigger (intriguing accounts of religions, expedition, geography, society and history of Everest: a good read). The film failed to live up to the drama captured by the I-Max crew that were on the mountain at the time filming a planned documentary; but the scale of the action, landscape and emotional avalanche were conveyed reasonably well.
So, we were up a little too early the next day, had a leisurely bacon and eggs breakfast (a once a week treat for me) and up to scrape another plot level and put in broad beans. Another bright day but the allotment site shop is not open: another sign that the committee are not really active. We needed more potato fertiliser; we still do. We’ll have to go elsewhere – again. This is sad. This committee are content to sit back and react to things rather than be pro-active it seems. I have mentioned getting the car park tidied up so more cars could be slotted in: no response.
But Stokey Van Man is there. Tadpole Bob too and banter is never far away. We discuss the state of the roads: so many pot-holes – and so damagingly deep. The number of cyclists on the roads (trying to avoid pot holes on super-thin tyred bikes (surely meant for velodrome tracks, says Stokey), driverless cars, earth movers, the fact that there seems to be a rash of Birmingham University students getting mugged.
“Putting the world to rights,” my grandmother would have said.
I’m back onto the plot then to have a bash at turning over some new soil. I always plan to get all of the digging done before winter. The frosts and snows can break down the soil then and kill of weed seeds and seedlings. But, so far I have never managed it. Digging is a good exercise. And I need it. I take it steady. And, for that little while I feel as if I am passing time, rather than time passing me. A kind of hippy state I try and ignore, but I can fool myself that I am one with the soil, I can spot the characteristics of stones as I move (that’s how slowly I’m digging): shape, colour, patterns, distinctive sparkles, size. I scoop a few up to put on our “beach” back at home (shingle beach obviously – and nowhere near the sea).
* which, in a way, they are. Unless they are pernicious they get dug in don’t they? (well they do on our plot.