Diary of an allotment woman

Mid January, mid winter, wet, cold, dark, a time when bad things happen.

There are no fences on allotment sites (except round the outer edges). Plots are divided only by a narrow grass path along their length, and by no more than a wooden marker post along their width, so you quickly realise that you are exposed to the full view of your neighbours. For a beginner this can be quite intimidating.

Allotmenteers, like other folk, come in all shapes and sizes. Some are there to escape domestic turmoil, nagging spouses, or Coronation Street, and have no wish to communicate with their fellow men. A nod and a smile, “good morning”, and the courtesies are satisfied. Others are happy to chat, lean on the spade and to share their years of experience. No doubt with a view to being helpful, they tell you they wouldn’t do it like that, what a pity you didn’t buy a different trowel, carrots simply don’t grow on this site, back in 2001 they grew the biggest parsnip ever seen….

“So, you’re rowing up your potatoes”, says a very Yorkshire passer-by, early on in our plot life. Allotment Man speaks two languages, the Queen’s English and the local dialect. “Aye”, he says, lapsing into the vernacular, which I won’t attempt to replicate (much) “that’s what me dad taught me when I were nobbut a lad in Easingwold”. This neatly establishes several useful facts. One, he is a true native, not an incomer like me. Two, he knows what he’s doing. Three, he’s done it before. Immediately there begins a long and amicable discussion of the merits of rowing up or not, which I do not follow, not least because I’m still at the stage where I think it has something to do with boats. Many such chats follow.

Neighbours are generous not only with their advice. They give you cuttings, spare seedlings, surplus produce, and a cup of tea if the flask is out when you go by. They leave unwanted items on the ‘swaps table’, which, like the Give and Take Day, keeps stuff out of landfill or off the compost heap, if there is any life left in it. And they will water, and keep an eye on things while you are away.

When we began, our neighbour was welcoming and kind in many ways, not least in lending me his state of the art kneeling device when my back gave out, AM’s standard issue being a bit of old foam rubber that had seen better days. Many better days. Much of this neighbour’s plot was given over to flowers, especially dahlias and sweet peas. His sweet peas were truly wonderful, long straight stems with big colourful flowers and a heady perfume. When I admired them, standing in front of my own puny efforts so that he might not notice them, he would say his were rubbish, not like the ones he used to grow for showing, but they looked pretty damn good to me, and when he gave me some, I treasured them. He was ill much of last summer, and by invitation we picked his flowers occasionally and brought them home, where they filled the house with colour and scent.

Bad things happen. This entry in my diary is dedicated to the memory of this good neighbour, the late Alvyn (Stardust) Harrison, grower of the best sweet peas ever, and one of the nicest men who ever wielded a spade, who died on January 3rd. May he rest in peace.