The Allotment

A post about the joys and valuable lessons I found there.

2014.

I had a toddler and no garden, so an allotment presented a perfect opportunity. When the parish council were offering them, I leapt at the chance.

The verdant valley we looked down upon, had always framed our day with its splendour - suddenly we could steep ourselves within it, become conscious custodians of this vivid painting!

I quickly made the decision that I would not bow to convention.

Who said I had to grow only vegetables?

Why have neat rows of carrots when what I desired more than anything, was a wild mop of hotchpotch? I’d always been a fan of Alys Fowler and admired the way she refused to dilute her passion for both functionality and beauty.

I yearned for a pond where I could enjoy watching water boatmen and frogs, whilst sat on a tree stump.

I wanted a bench made of stone and wood, berries that could be picked as warm pearls before bleeding on to tongues, staining lips with trickles of indigo and cerise!

I longed for straggles of lolloping flowers busybodying their bold, unapologetically on to my path.

And yes, some vegetables too. Fat bulbs of garlic to be held as broad, handsome dog paws.

Leeks that snipped the frost from skies with their blue scissory tops.

And a herb garden! To have the aromas of lemon balm and rosemary limpet and leech themselves onto my finger tips.

I had a vision.

It would all come to pass!

My mum had bought me some gloves but I didn’t wear them.

I disliked the way they felt - a physical barrier between my skin and the tender crumb of earth. I vowed to tune into the song of soil, learning its cracks and moisture, squelch and give!

Occasionally, whilst thumbing, I would hit a nettle or thistle but enjoyed the stark warnings of their stings and prickles. It was a reminder of the power of nature and my own fragility.

Weirdly, there is something cleansing about seeing mud dry and flake upon you - you are firmed and recast. Watching dirt etch itself within my palms as dull black and brown hashes, reacquainted me with the idea of my hands as the practical tools they were designed to be. Grappling and tending, nurturing, creating….

I loved the sounds of the allotment too.

The bird song that could be picked apart into lone melodies.

The rustle and scupper of a cheeky rabbit or deer.

The noise of my spade chunking into the ground, metal clanging against rock to give me ‘scissors, paper, stone’ vibes. Obstacles became puzzles needing different strategies. Did you root out with vigour or gently tease around something?

Raking unleashed the same pleasures as combing hair or mixing a cake. You are both aerating and sleeking down, attempting to bolster yet tame.

And all this before I had even planted a single seed!

The allotment soon became a haven I could escape to with my young son - a place he could learn of the cycles of life.

Watching your child hold a ladybird or caterpillar for the first time is a joy. A slug, not so much. But even that made me confront and explore my own prejudices.

Why is that so? That some creatures are revered, others labelled disgusting?

I began to see moonlight and majesty in their dotted trails, marvel at the way their tummies slithered, sowing their diamond dabs.

We came eye to eye with the unsung caretakers of our planet, acknowledging the roles of tiny ants and wriggling worms.

Fabulous conversations ensued that reflected the struggles of the wider world.

If we consider something to be ‘a pest’, is it truly a pest or does it perhaps have a role in the ecosystem that we don’t fully appreciate or understand?

Can we find ways of coexisting with so called ‘enemies’?

When is it appropriate to observe, intervene, back off, let go?

As we hosted miniature mechanisms and microscopic universes in the palms of our hands, the rest of the world conspired to join us in wonder. Clouds fluffed like the flesh of baked potatoes whilst time spoke in the lazy hums of bumble bees.

One day, I saw a violet ground beetle! It is still up there for me with seeing a wild dolphin, such was its radiance. It really was a spectacular specimen, toddling along as though a sturdy carriage for a delicate fairy queen! I like to imagine he was on his way to collect her, to dispatch her to the woodland ball.

Eventually, I gave the allotment up. There were issues round the water supply, which not having a car or living close enough to carry it, made it too difficult to continue. Also, my son was attending school and we had fewer unhurried hours together.

But for a few years, the place was a sanctuary. It freed my hands from paperwork, emails and a phone. It put them to work doing something worthwhile and gave my son a sense of connection with his environment.

And as I write these words, I smile, remembering both the concept of sowing seeds and the practical reality of it.

About not underestimating the power of a simple dream, the value of getting your hands dirty and the lessons that nature teaches, should we pay attention to her wisdom.

It’s Spring.

So, I ask you both literally and metaphorically;

What can you hold in your hand already and cherish as something wonderful?

What is growing for you right now?

What is blossoming, coming to fruition?

And what can you plant today that will make a better tomorrow?

Acknowledge.

Appreciate.

Activate.

The world is alive, and so are you!