For the second year running we have won first prize for 'onions as grown' ; that is: dug up, washed and exhibited but not 'prettified' in any way. Large leaves flopping on the green baize of the table, no nice little loops of twine around the stalks. Our three onions came as they were - the only exhibit in their class.
The sets were a gift from a friend who had more than she needed.
Allotment life should be like this, sharing and swopping, propagating and passing on. Our raspberries and gooseberries (second and third) were sourced in a similar way. Experienced allotmenteers are happy to help out. You have the option to say no, gracefully, to what is offered and in time you acquire an eye for what to accept and what to decline.
As for next summer's show - anybody for a red dessert gooseberry?
Thursday 26 July 2012
Monday 16 July 2012
Pick Your Own
Pick Your Own is an invitation and an injunction.
An invitation - to the allotmenteer who has been waiting all summer for the raspberries ripening in sun and shower. Now is the moment. Pick your own to bake crumbles and make summer pudding. Pick them from the hidden places underneath the leaves before they turn and rot and fall to the ground. Pick daily, so that the next fruits in succession continue to ripen and swell. Pick them before the pigeons.
An injunction - as you walk past other plots where raspberries hang, ungathered; past grapevines whose young tender leaves are perfect for dolmas, past bright marigolds and scented sweet peas, past jostaberries on uncultivated plots smothered in weeds.
All is open to view on an allotment. Plots are unfenced, paths are communal, Entry gates are locked. Obvious thieves will come over the fence or squeeze through the weak spots on the railings. These instructions are for those on the inside too. Gather from your own plot. Do not steal; Do not covet.
An invitation - to the allotmenteer who has been waiting all summer for the raspberries ripening in sun and shower. Now is the moment. Pick your own to bake crumbles and make summer pudding. Pick them from the hidden places underneath the leaves before they turn and rot and fall to the ground. Pick daily, so that the next fruits in succession continue to ripen and swell. Pick them before the pigeons.
An injunction - as you walk past other plots where raspberries hang, ungathered; past grapevines whose young tender leaves are perfect for dolmas, past bright marigolds and scented sweet peas, past jostaberries on uncultivated plots smothered in weeds.
All is open to view on an allotment. Plots are unfenced, paths are communal, Entry gates are locked. Obvious thieves will come over the fence or squeeze through the weak spots on the railings. These instructions are for those on the inside too. Gather from your own plot. Do not steal; Do not covet.
Friday 13 July 2012
The year of the slug
This must be the year of the slug. With the bountiful showers - for which I am giving thanks - come slugs and snails. Shameless snails are abroad in broad daylight consuming my broad beans. They hang like blobby marbles on the underside of the leaves a foot in the air. A foot like a suction pad keeps them there.
Slugs and snails ate my kale. Now all I have is a few skeletal ribs. Slugs slide up the panes of my greenhouse and snack on aubergine and coriander. Snails are eating my cabbage, and even my hardy winter squash (which comes from Peterborough) has not escaped.
Snails sneaked their way into the shed. They sought cellulose and found it. My wall calendar was hanging there with picture perfect photos of cottage gardens. I bet all their snails are floating drunk in beer traps, foaming to cruel death with blue pellets, scaling pots of hostas whilst trying to navigate little piles of eggshells. They are certainly not eating their way through the months of June, July and August.
Time like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away wrote the hymnwriter.
Time consumes at a snail's pace.
Slugs and snails ate my kale. Now all I have is a few skeletal ribs. Slugs slide up the panes of my greenhouse and snack on aubergine and coriander. Snails are eating my cabbage, and even my hardy winter squash (which comes from Peterborough) has not escaped.
Snails sneaked their way into the shed. They sought cellulose and found it. My wall calendar was hanging there with picture perfect photos of cottage gardens. I bet all their snails are floating drunk in beer traps, foaming to cruel death with blue pellets, scaling pots of hostas whilst trying to navigate little piles of eggshells. They are certainly not eating their way through the months of June, July and August.
Time like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away wrote the hymnwriter.
Time consumes at a snail's pace.
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