Allotment Life

The satisfaction of a morning tending the soil... and soul.

Lyra, our Parson Russell Terrier, sat on the bed yesterday morning in a sunspot of spring warmth. In perfect profile, she gazed out of the window listening to the sounds of birdsong and bleating lambs wafting in through the open window.

I imagined she was wondering what the day might hold. Did she know it was the weekend? Ordinarily, that might mean a walk across the fields to a pub or, for a long-range adventure, catching the early bus to Uppingham and then hot-footing it home in time for coffee.

But yesterday had been set aside for spring digging on the allotment – and Lyra, a natural born rotavator, was coming with us.

We’ve had the allotment for two seasons and successfully grown weeds for the most part.

This year, Mrs F and I are making a concerted effort to look after our little plot of land, for which we pay the parish council the grand sum of £10 per year. (That’s less than a bottle of Snoop Dogg Cali Red wine from the village garage.)

And so, with determination in our hearts and forks in hand, we set off on foot down the lane, peering into the canyon opened up by workmen installing a girthsome, bright blue water main, into which nearly all the orange plastic safety fencing had blown overnight.

The wind was still gusting, sending ripples and waves through the field of winter-planted cereal whose sudden, spurting growth has been brought on by milder weather and warming earth, after the snow of two weeks ago. The sky above us promised nothing, only the four-seasons-in-one-day weather that makes March so fickle.

The allotments are at the bottom of a steeply sloping valley to the north of the village, on the opposite side of a brook. While the plots themselves are on a south facing incline, they’re sunk into the landscape and starved of sunshine in winter, remaining permafrost white during cold snaps.

Winter clearance work has thinned out some of the trees that run alongside the brook, along with a monstrous bramble that occupied a long-abandoned plot, meaning there is now more light and air, and a satisfying open plan look to the allotments. The branches overhanging the brook from a which a roped bucket is suspended to draw water remains.

We set about digging up the remnants of last year’s weeds, pleasantly surprised to find our efforts to remove sprawling field bindweed had paid dividends, although a few clusters of stems turned up looking like innocent bean sprouts ready to be stir-fried. A few nettles and brambles also emerged from the earth.

Lyra joined in energetically, striking gold with a manky potato, a leftover from last season’s modest crop, before wandering off to go mice hunting along the banks of the brook.

While digging is hard work, one can slip into an almost trance-like rhythm of staring into the soil, watching the earthworms emerge (and a centipede), then straightening up to look up at the sky, clouds scudding overhead at speed, the trees bending in the breeze, and all the while listening to the sounds around: chiffchaff, robin, red kite and a pair of geese noisily circling the brook.

If I’m honest, there are moments I’d rather not be digging in the dirt, sweating in a cold wind with an aching back. But being outdoors, in nature, working together, is rather wonderful. For me, it is appreciated even more when the work is done. Une bon fatigue – a good tiredness – the French call it.

While Mrs F grew up gardening, learning the names of plants from her mother and excelling at biology, my time outside was always focused on sport or walking. While I would now quite happily spend all day, every day walking around Rutland, I can feel the appeal of gardening and allotment life growing in me. The opportunity to quit my computer and pop down the lane to prod and poke the soil to help the plants along is quite alluring.

Mrs F, @tinafirkinsart, under a four-seasons-in-one-day sky

I like the social aspect to it, too. We chatted with one of our neighbours for a while, not having seen him over the winter. He was busy peeling back sheets of black plastic, in place since the autumn to supress the weeds.

The next time we looked up he was chasing his hat, blown off in the wind, across the neighbouring paddock. The ewes and the lambs bleated their laughter.

We dug around the still-small fruit bushes, planted two years ago, but coming along nicely: gooseberry, redcurrant and blackcurrant, whose tiny green leaves, crushed, smell fresh and fruity.

The plan this year is for runner beans, French beans, onions, leeks, cabbage and kale, Cavolo Nero. Mrs F also wants cut flowers for the house, so sweet peas, dahlias, rudbeckia, calendula and stocks.

I plan to put in a picnic bench, so we can sit and rest on a summer evening when the work is done. (“A glass of cool white wine, dear?”)

But summer is still some way off and spring is only just getting going.

Lyra, having dug many holes, was covered in earth. A good morning’s work for all.

We picked up our tools and wandered, back up the hill, home.