A motley crue

The members of our allotment site are a motley crue, - a mixture of ages, nationalities, professions … multi-layered like a good compost … there are the old diehards who are not afraid of engaging the flora and fauna with chemical warfare and can’t be doing with any of this new-fangled organic nonsense (despite the fact  many of them have been organic practitioners for years they just don’t use the term organic!). These guys really know what they are doing – producing eye wateringly huge cabbages, hernia-inducing marrows, tumbling masses of beans … and not a weed in sight.  Alongside them are the earnest organic gardeners  who with almost Gandhi-like fortitude face down the mighty pests and pestilences often armed just with a plastic of tub of beer (for the slugs of course) and a tray of marigold seedlings (to attract beneficial insects) – they’re often seen with toddlers in tow who make mud pies, ‘help’ with the watering, stamp on the seedlings and generally have a time of it. 

We also seem to have quite an Italian community on our site and it’s these people, often dimunitive and fairly elderly, who seem to have horticulture embedded in their DNA – this is not gardening but alchemy – how else do you explain luscious figs, large fragrant bushes of basil, glowing peppers, robust aubergines - all grown in an English climate. .. what’s their secret? …Then there are, of course, the dilettantes whose initial enthusiasm is a joy to behold fruit cages built with the aid of spirit levels and high level technological expertise, brand new gardening tools wielded with gusto but how the interest wanes over the months leaving weeds running riot and dandelion seeds blowing in the wind – but watch your backs …the allotment Gestapo are on to you – give yourselves up now!

In an effort to clear the remaining winter veg I have uprooted all the remaining leeks and decided to experiment and cook them a little differently… and it turned out brilliantly. These are my creamy, mustardy leeks.

Creamy Leeks

 Wash and slice 3 or 4 leeks, put them in a pan with a thimbleful of water just enough to stop them sticking initially. Clamp on a lid and cook over a lowish heat – you’ll be surprised how much liquid comes out of the leeks. When they are tender, stir in a heaped teaspoon of wholegrain mustard and then a couple of tablespoons of low fat crème fraiche – of course you can use full fat for a creamier dish and adjust the amount of mustard to taste.

A sense of community

Today I was given a gift from a new found allotment friend – a bronze bowl full of mange tout peas ready to plant –and this set me thinking on the question I’m sometimes asked ‘what’s the big deal about allotments’. For me the main big deal is that we have a tiny, ‘ no room to swing a cat’ garden. An allotment gives us the space and freedom to dig and grow to our hearts’ content…but it’s more than that. I’d rather grow veg in the allotment than in the garden. Now it’s hard to say why given the problems an allotment can pose: for instance, you can’t just step out of your back door to pull a carrot or snip a few spinach leaves  you have to remember to bring whatever produce you want back with you or make a special trip there. You often have to lug your tools - fork, spade, watering can – from home unless you are lucky enough to have 2 sets – one to keep on the site - and even then you might find them mysteriously snaffled overnight! Then of course you have to remember the allotment gate key every time  you go … yes every time, unless of course,  having forgotten it you are foolhardy enough to attempt to climb over . This is an experience I really wouldn’t recommend having got stuck  perilously and uncomfortably  halfway over. While my knuckles whitened from the strain of hanging on I smiled and nodded at curious passers by as if this were all part of my usual daily routine, … I’ve never forgotten the key again. But all these inconveniences are merely trivial in the face of so many intangible joys. There is so much here you cannot replicate in a garden:  the sense of a really wide open space slap in the middle of a city where sounds of birdsong mingle with sirens and the roar of the rush hour traffic; the sense of community – chattering  with fellow plot-holders (what are you seeding now? When do you prune blackcurrant bushes and so on), the shared commiseration over lost crops, and above all – remembering my bronze bowl of mange tout - the generosity of my fellow allotmenteers, who give help and encouragement whenever needed.

 

Spring Awakening

I feel rather like Rip Van Winkle emerging after a long winter’s sleep as I enter the allotment gates. As it should, March has come roaring in like a lion  with its icy winds  and  freezing rain, but today the air is merely bracing and relatively springlike with a few weak rays of sun - maybe the lamb is following around the corner… It’s not as though I haven’t visited the patch throughout the winter but it was only really to pull a reluctant leek or two from the frozen ground and eye it all with a certain air of detachment.  But now I approach it with renewed vigour and a certain degree of trepidation.

It’s been a long cold winter and, I’ve had a certain degree of frustration in not being able to just get out there, but we contented ourselves in the dark evenings by huddling in front of the fire and drawing up plans for this year’s allotment  - we devised schemes of rotational planting like feudal landlords, noted down last year’s successes and failures. But most excitingly we pored over seed catalogues and were beguiled by such names as ‘Red Fire’ Cima di Rape, Bambino, Hannibal and a tomato intriguingly named Big Boy…. And so beguiled were we that caution was thrown to the winds, as well as a large cheque,  and I’m now in possession of  lots of those little packets of promise. …

Today I plan to rip into one of those packets because I am going to sow some wild rocket directly in the ground. Traditionally this is the first thing we sow in the year as these seeds don’t seem to mind the coldness – of course  traditionally  they sometimes come up and sometimes they don’t! I have to say the soil does feel icy cold still with the early morning frosts we’ve been having and I’m wondering if this is the triumph of hope over experience. Apparently, at this time of year farmers of yore used to down their breeches and lower their bare bottoms on the soil – gingerly I presume. If the earth felt cosy enough on their backsides it was time to plant. Well do I follow this tradition? I don’t think so! What I do tend to do though is dip my elbow on the soil rather like testing a baby’s bathwater.  Well I’m not sure if this bathwater is ready for its seed babies yet . I’ll risk the rocket but nothing else. 

I’m hoping that the recent cold winter has vanquished the slug and snail population, so I’m going to do some sleuthing and check out their usual hiding places. Ah hah you can slither but you can’t hide – actually not much detective work was involved. I stupidly left a plastic sack at the back of the allotment and boy do they like a bit of smooth, synthetic material…..  Maybe their numbers are reduced slightly but hard to say …. Well they are looking fairly innocent at the moment – I think if they could they’d be blinking in the daylight saying ‘who us’? We wouldn’t dream of locking our jaws around your seedlings, your cabbages, your lettuces – we’re innocent.  Hah well you’re nicked. because I do know that slugs and snails are gastropods which literally means stomach/foot – and I think that says it all about their goal in life.  Actually although I do feel murderous when I see a crop decimated a lone snail does have a certain lugubrious charm, as it slowly perambulates amidst the greenery , antenna alert  rather like an elderly scholar in search of a rare manuscript. In fact, Patricia Highsmith, the American crime writer, was so enamoured of these beasties that she kept snails as pets and carried them around in her handbag on a head of lettuce – I also heard that she used to smuggle them across borders by hiding them in her bra – all I can say is that she had a high tolerance of slime and very capacious bras! I see myself as an organic gardener but I can never be bothered with slug pubs or hotels (I love the mental image that conjures – do they play darts, get a bit lary after a few)? I can’t face crushing egg shells to scatter around  the place to deter them. I just prefer, rather like Patricia Highsmith, good old fashioned murder.