Adjusting to summer

The absolute blowsy nonsense of peonies. 

Rewatching a favourite film in the oldest cinema in the UK. 

What happens when no mow may gets out of hand (the camera is 2 feet off the ground)

First strawberry joy.

Tiny wee Mabel seeking cool spots. 

Trying to overcome my distaste for summer (so sweaty, so much flesh on display, enforced outdoor activities) and recover some time for blogging. 

I hope you're all well. Does this year feel like a mad rush for you too? So many of us feeling like Alice's White Rabbit. 

But there are peonies and peas growing sturdily and long evenings with wine and birthdays coming up. 

 

October at the Allotment

As you can imagine, there is something about a wedding that gets in the way of allotment time. Apart from flying visits during the day where I'd dash up there, water and chat to the sunflowers, I didn't really linger. Certainly, my habit of taking a coffee up with me and sitting down to watch the insects fell by the wayside. 

But now we're in October and there is no big event to plan and make metres and metres of bunting, or stamp seed packets, or sift wildflower seeds, or source vintage jugs, or panic-source tablecloths for, so now I can switch my attention back to the place that brings me most peace. 

I'm planting red and white onions that will ripen over the winter. Garlic and broad beans too. The kale is still going, so I'll leave that in situ, but mainly this month is about tidying down. 

The courgettes are done, so I dug those up at the weekend. The french beans too, but I'm letting those die back before lifting them as they're good for setting nitrogen in the soil. The potatoes are all out now too. Only the sunflowers really remain, defiant against the dropping temperatures. And I'm reluctant to cut the raspberry canes down just yet as the bees are still bimbling amongst them, finding nectar where I thought it was all gone for the year. 

We got to try our first ever home-grown red cabbage. Shredded thinly, served with beetroot and red onion (likewise) with feta and a standard vinaigrette dressing, it was delicious. Red cabbage salad is one of my favourites. Good job really - there are 5 more cabbages in varying stages of readiness up at the plot. 

I've wound the hose up for the last time and strimmed all the long grass down with my inadequate strimmer. It's battery only lasts about 5 minutes, so it takes a good 4 trips to get the whole plot done. A little frustrating but a good excuse for short breaks from the desk this week. I've cleaned the tools and managed not to scream at the spider that wanted to know what I was doing, lifting its comfy trowel out of the dark corner. 

The plan is to let everything die down and settle down until November when we'll start making plans for the raised beds. the 4th growing area will be going no dig for next year as I just don't have it in me to dig over another large area like that. I always end up damaged and with large physio bills when I do. Instead, we've been gathering cardboard like there's a world shortage and will soon order in the tonnes of topsoil we'll need. 

Then it's the simple task of building the beds, getting the topsoil to the plot, lifting it into the beds...I'll stop there. I already feel the need for a lie down. 

Luckily my brother-in-law is a gardener for hire, with a van and the quiet winter period looming, so we'll rope him in with promises of tea, sausage sandwiches and a day's pay. I think the latter may be a more convincing bribe. If we can get my sis and her kids involved, it'll be like an Amish barn raising. Without the barn. Or the beards. 

Then it'll be time to move our sights to the far end of the plot. By February, I'm hoping to have that cleared of knotweed, fallen tree branches and accumulated nonsense so the polytunnel can go down there. In short, there are plans afoot. 

N and I spent a good few hours in the garden on Saturday. It was looking raggedy around the edges with drooping tomato plants, pots piled everywhere and the corpses of plants that didn't make it through the drought standing like little signposts of guilt about the place. 3 hours later, everything dead or about to be cleared, pots washed and piled neatly, mini greenhouse cleaned and scrubbed, a big yup of stuff for the tip gathered, roses and honeysuckle pruned, we toasted our efforts with mugs of tea and a sit down. 

I once heard that Sophia Loren's advice for staying youthful was to avoid 'old people noises', those groans and whimpers and oohs and aahs people of a Certain Age make after physical exertion...or just standing up from the armchair. I'm sorry Sophia, but I made all the old person noises on Saturday. Worth it though. 

Into the August Mix

So far in August, apart from staring glumly into our rapidly emptying water butts and asking each other who's turn it is to cook ("I'm sure it's your turn", "Can't be, I did it last night", "we had sandwiches last night", "yeah but I made them", "that does not count as 'cooking'" and so on until we agree to have sandwiches again), we have enjoyed the simple pleasures of a drought and a looming wedding. 

I have discovered that swimming at my nearest salt-water lido early in the morning is a delicious, if breath-sucking, thing indeed. The birds are still yawning, the trees cast elegant shadows over the pool and lawns. Swimming capped ladies of a certain age, knobbly and soft with life, bob alongside each other, chatting. "I told him, it's no good you saying that Steve will fix the tap, we've seen hide nor hair of him for weeks; he'll only show up again when his latest fancy piece kicks him out." "Ooh, you never said that!" "I did, I'll not put up with idleness."

Afterwards, I reward my fortitude with hot chocolate and a toasted tea cake. Sometimes I go in the evening, a welcoming cool down, but the conversation isn't the same - it's more likely to be that Steve and his fancy piece, plus approximately 5 billion kids and a similar number of teenagers casually trying not to catch each other's eye - and the cafe is closed. 

Trees at the Lido park

Bridesmaids dresses have arrived and are hanging in my wardrobe ahead of the Big Try On. A froth of netting, embroidery and chiffon, with a sprinkling of sequins, in blush pinks and creams. I can't decide if it looks like a cupboard some sinister fairy Bluebeard would have, or as though Tinkerbell sneezed in there. Either way, the nieces will look twirly and special on the day, which is all they're really worried about. I have threatened both nephews with a lovely peach satin page boy outfit, complete with dicky-bow, as spotted (and photographed for future sartorial threatening) but am graciously holding back on that reality. 

N and I have started a new Friday ritual where we go for a walk somewhere lovely and rural. After the other week's epic, uphill, flying ant experience, he picked a woodland walk that was on level ground and didn't take 4 hours. It was pleasant, a woodland I'd not visited before, and cool under the shady trees. Huge dragonflies zoomed around a clearing we stopped in for lunch, and there were dozens of butterflies leading the way along the paths. We're undecided about this week - part of me has given a small sob at the thought of 35 degree heat - and may decide to be sensible and forgo it until the following week when it is a sensible 22 degrees and I can move without melting. 

A walk that didn't make me feel like my lungs were about to fall out. Still nice though. 

There's been a new addition to the family this week. Well, 3 new additions. Earlier in the year, I'd pointed at the shubunkin in the pond and said, "that one looks pregnant," which N had scoffed at until Monday when he spotted 3 very tiny shubunkins flitted between the reeds at the shallow end. Babies! This is very exciting and has resulted in much peering over the edge and trying to spot them again. The other fish are too taken up with clopping at unwary flies on the water's surface to bother them now. 

We've also had our first ever dahlia success. Having been handed a bag on anonymous tubers and the vague instruction to "plant them in the spring", we weren't really sure what we'd get. Was it even a dahlia? I'm pleased to say that it was and that they are beautiful. Tiny wee firecrackers of colour, just as the nemesia are giving up the ghost. I can't go out and photograph them for you right now as I'd burst into flames. 

The Kid started a new job this week. After 4 years working in care, looking after adults with physical and mental disabilities, before, during and after the pandemic, dealing with an increase in aggressive behaviours during the lockdowns, struggling on the minimum wage. Excuse me a small amount of anger, but all that clapping resulted in absolutely zero in terms of better wages or better working conditions (fancy a 12 hour awake-all-night shift followed by a 3 hour 'essential' team meeting anyone?). 

All the most intriguing paths were strictly non-humans only

Anyway, he now has a job at the lovely Pitt Rivers museum in Oxford, long one of our absolutely favourite places. When I asked him how it was going, he said, in a tone of great wonder, "I can walk into the research room any time I like". Which pretty much sounds like the dream to me. 

We have a trip to the sea coming up shortly. Not having seen our friends in the north for nearly a year, catch up is overdue. After my quick solo break in May, I made a resolution that we would get away more and remember to tell N about it as my finger pressed "BOOK" on the next break. We're going to see Lindisfarne, Bamborough and Alnwick, because he's seen none of them (he hasn't lived!) and then we're having a massive gathering of the clans, plus quiz, food and cake. I Can. Not. Wait. 

Today I did something I've never done before...I complained about a school. Bear with me. I'd been thinking about it for the past 2 weeks, but shied away as I'm not, by nature, a teller of tales or caster of stones. However, after the 4th incident of finding the grammar school were using a sprinkler on their goddamn CRICKET field, I properly lost my temper and did it before I could calm down again. I was, I think, calm and polite, yet unequivocal in how that's really Not On. So there. I am now one of Those People, who write do-gooding complaint letters and twitch their net curtains and write down reg numbers...actually, I draw the line at the last unless a Proper Crime has been committed, however badly the woman at No 1 chooses to park. 

The canal at 7am. Gorgeous and shady. 

So I am a snitch but we are hours away from an official drought announcement and subsequent hosepipe bans. Some places are without water already. The allotment ground has cracks in it wide enough for a finger to fit in. We slop grey water from the house to the garden. Everywhere is tinder-dry. Whole crops have been lost and farmers are caught between a drought and a Brexit. Now is not the time to be scattering water like so much privileged confetti. 

And if they can just wait till Monday, there shall be rain enough to green their pitch. 

This morning I harvested a lot of wildflower seed heads from the allotment, so I can spend this afternoon decanting the seeds into tiny envelopes for our wedding guests. Some people pick sugared almonds (although why? Those things are harder than the science questions on University Challenge with Jeremy Paxman yelling "Come ON!" after 2 seconds); at my cousin's we all got little Burts Bees lip salves and hand creams, which was sweet. I like the idea of wildflower seeds though, and even if all they do is throw them away (as happens so many wedding favours), the seeds will still find a way. So if you'll excuse me, I need to get my shaking hand on. 

Have a splendid weekend, everyone. Hold on in there, rain's a-comin'. 

PS, I'm trying not to bombard you all with too much wedding talk, but it has to be said, the damn things take up a lot of time and attention. Tell me if you're bored and would prefer my hot take on the Tory leadership race. Although no one really needs that. 

July at the Allotment

Gracious, it has been a week since those dog days of oppressive heat and unforgiving sun, where N and I took to hanging damp towels in front of open windows and, at the worst points, putting even damper towels over our heads. We may have looked all kinds of ridiculous but, as we never left the house past 10am, no one was any the wiser. 

Do you know what has been absolutely loving this heat? The sunflowers. Yes, they have finally taken off from the thin spindly, slug bitten things that they were and are shooting skywards (you can see a video of their progress on my Instagram feed (pretty much the only social media I engage with now. Does Blogging count as social media? It feels too measured for that. Anyway, back to the point...). All they needed, it seemed, was a solid dose of Mediterranean temperatures to set them on the right course. It's quite reassuring to see, although I have been researching emergency florists just in case. 

The courgettes have recovered from a similar case of slug attack too. They were nice and healthy when they went out; a day later they were stripped of all but one leaf. It's incredibly frustrating but other plot holders tell me I'm not alone - slug levels have been off the slimy record and we're all grasping at coffee grounds (the one I have had most success with), copper tape and wool pellets. There are slow worms on the site but it seems there aren't enough of them. I really must get my pond dug and frogspawn transplanted when the time is right. 

I'm reluctant to bring in hedgehogs as there are badgers here, and badgers eat hedgehogs (true and disgusting) and I don't think I could bear to be responsible for that kind of massacre. 

BUT, there are signs of balance. I've seen more ladybirds on the plot this year, keeping aphids under control with no intervention from me. Chives have seen off the white and black fly from the beans. I keep a shallow dish filled with water to encourage birds down. Crickets scatter as I walk, so I know they're around picking off pests. 

As usual, my low boredom threshold for weeding means that there are "wild flowers" galore, so the bees and butterflies are out in number, which is just fun to sit and watch. It also means that the ever present bindweed is really flourishing in parts, but I like to let that get to a decent length and then pull it out of the ground like spaghetti from a carbonara. 

The potatoes are nearly ready, I think. I'll be lifting a few at the weekend to check. The beetroot are slow but that's my fault for the late sowing which has meant the ground has been too dry to plant them out. The raspberries are mainly autumn fruiting but a few are already ripe, albeit small through lack of rain. These I pick as I go, handy snacks rather than a crop I make plans for. 

The Japanese wineberries are also looking ready to burst from their strange, sticky cases. They made a superb jam last year, but I'm not sure I'll have time to make jam again. Too much to do in the run up to September. Maybe a flavoured gin that can quietly steep while I'm busy and then be handed out to everyone who helped with the wedding? 

I like that idea. I also think gin will needed. 

In August, I'm going to order in a heck-tonne (an official measurement) of topsoil and compost so I can finish off the last 3 beds in the no-dig fashion. N has, reasonably, pointed out that digging through the accumulated nonsense - accumulated by previous plot tenant - absolutely breaks me, takes months and actually depletes the soil in the long term. He is not wrong, which is annoying. And I find that, in my 4th year of plot ownership, my enthusiasm for digging up that nonsense has decreased considerably. The arthritis makes progress slow and dispiriting, so better to try another method than involves no more than cardboard and a hefty topping of topsoil. Which I asked for for my birthday. 

Hey, some girls like diamonds, some like earth. 

The brassicas are HUGE now, having recovered from their dodgy start. N built me a new cage for them from bits of the fallen fruit cage, scaffolding netting and drainage tubing. They now have even more room to shoot up. Extra bonus: the netting is yellow and the pipes blue, so it’s a very colourful cage. 

I managed to put my back out slightly, lugging a half-full water butt into a new position. Annoying as it meant my planned 2 hours at the plot were curtailed by 40 mins so I could go home and lie down till the agony passed (it did) but also, hurrah for another water butt! 

This year is the driest I’ve seen the allotment. We haven’t had a decent rainfall for months. The canal level is low and a hosepipe ban is lurking just around the corner. Of lot of plants, under stress through lack of water, are throwing seed out early. The clay soil is crazed with deep cracks where it’s shrinking back on itself. 

There have been a few half-hearted attempts from the sky to throw some rain in our direction, but mostly it evaporates in the sky, or gets lost somewhere around Wales. Trying to weed or plant anything is like chipping away at plaster, so I have a number of plants in pots, waiting for the right time to go in. So we just have to hope August is a little kinder. 

At home, the garden is just about coping. We've lost more plants to the local fox family coming in and scent marking their way around (goodbye thyme, dwarf acer, ferns) than we have to weather conditions. Although the honeysuckle has never really enjoyed life here. The lettuces did lay down and die but the tomatoes are loving this, even though we are using grey water to keep them refreshed. 

Let's just hope they don't taste unusually fragrant when we come to harvest them. 

January at the Allotment

Mostly this morning, I am extremely tired thanks to the winds that blew a hoolie round the house all night and made me fret for the safety of our newly-constructed mini-greenhouse (fret not, it was still standing when I dared open the curtains this morning). So I've given myself permission to spend the morning messing about with seeds before I crack back onto work this afternoon.  

Yesterday, I grabbed a lovely couple of hours at the allotment. There was more digging of the long bed to be done but I'm pleased to report I'm now on the last third of it. The resident robin bobbed about nearby, on the look out for any worms, so when I sadly chopped one in half (and I was genuinely sad about it), I threw him the pieces and he darted off with his takeaway lunch. 

Which reminds me, my Mum recently told my niece about the legend that robins are the spirit of departed loved ones, come back to check on you. Pause. "I don't think Grandad is a robin," niece said thoughtfully. "I think he's a pigeon." 

Which has made us all laugh for weeks, every time we see a pigeon. 

It was good to be up there, with only a scattering of other people around, tending their own plots. The "You want a weed killer on that" man was there, hands in pockets, shuffling about his plot and stopping everyone who walked past to say "Werrrllll, I haven't seen so-and-so for aaaages. He's prah'bly quit." You may imagine that he is a bundle of joy wrapped in a holey jumper with a bad, slightly Hitler-ish moustache to bristle at things. 

Also up there were the Descriptive Couple. They like to allotment loudly, telling each other what they're doing. "So, I'm putting in the broad beans while you weed around the onions, right?" "Yes! And then I'll prune the raspberries while you turn the compost." "This is all great fun, look I've found a millipede!" When they got their plot, they smeared mud on their cheeks and danced around, hugging each other. They are adorable but not peaceful. 

And there was me, digging, sitting with a coffee, pruning, sitting with a coffee, picking up the blown over fruit cage, sitting with a coffee. I'm probably known as She Who Sits, but my brain is always busy. 

It was certainly good to be up there and feeling more positive about the place than I had been back at the start of January. Then, it had all felt overwhelming and depressing. Now, I was reminded that I've done this before and I can do this again. That, although the squirrels have dug up my spring bulbs (*shakes fist in general direction of squirrels*), the rosemary is shyly flaunting it's perfect little blue flowers. 

The raspberry canes had buds on them and the rhubarb had new shoots and everything, despite the cold wind whipping at my ears, felt ready to get going again. 

Back at home, thawing out with a hot chocolate (a particularly nice one, worth breaking my no-sugar vow, from the Harth chocolate company), I watched with increasing amusement as N put up the greenhouse. I thought the moment where he appeared consumed by the plastic covering, flailing his arms from underneath, as though covered by fog, was funny enough, but he then manged to put it over the frame with himself inside and the door still zipped up. Nearly spat out my chocolate as he mimed being stuck and then picked up the whole thing, turning around in circles. 

Funny man. 

This year, I've made myself a planting calendar of all the (70+. Yikes. Now I know where my money went last year) seeds I have and when to plant them. Oh yes, shit just got real as I am determined - once more with italics, determined - to make more use of the plot this year. No longer will I wake in August and realise I am 4 months late getting pumpkin seeds started. No longer will our windowsills be crammed with leggy seedlings, desperate for repotting. No more will I glower resentfully at those plot holders who appear to have it all planted out and ready to go. 

Oh no, this is my real new years resolution. I shall be the allotment holder all others envy. My potatoes will be plentiful, my berries bountiful and my squash splendiferous. People will congratulate me on the progress and ask for advice. I shall smile quietly and gently steer their gaze from that giant yup of dead wood at the end of the plot. 

Fake it till you make it. 

My Week in ... Touch

 Has a week gone by already? Since starting the My Week in... series, I find that the 7 days absolutely fly by and, if I'm not careful (and I'm often not), a couple of weeks will have disappeared behind me and I haven't posted anything. 

And yes, I do wonder why I post anything on here at all. I'm a sporadic diary keeper and a life-long writer of nonsense that rarely sees the light of day. This way, I get to write and keep track of my life, focusing on the tiny pleasures that punctuate the days but can so often be overlooked by bigger, more complicated stuff. 

Speaking of tiny pleasures, here are the past 7 days through the medium of touch.

Thorns scratching as the brambles on the plot desperately resisted my attempts to hack them out, or at least back under control. I won.

Satisfyingly tactile, soft but substantial stripy socks keeping my feet warm in wellies. 

The gentle roughness of bark as I bring some logs home for another bug house. 

The cold of the keys to the museum in my hand as I go back in for the first time since Lockdown #2 to check on the building. 

Mabel's little head butting mine as she establishes her rightful place in my morning. 

The shivery furriness of a leaf from one of the houseplants, brought back to life after I realised it wasn't thriving where it was and moved it. 

Slippery, almost silky fabric of the new-old skirt I've been wearing this week. 

The weight and flow of the fountain pen used to write a letter to a friend. 

Mabel. Familiar, hot water bottle, tiny tyrant. 

My Week in...Touch

 What a strange and curious week it has been too. The museum is finally open to the public, so my days have been spent rushing around trying to get everything set up so no volunteers gets infected/passes anything on/ditto visitors/that all the changes around the building are clearly signposted/that all the new exhibits are labelled/that all the displays and cases are moved to their new positions/that everywhere is clean and tidy and all cobwebs are removed. Eesh.

There have been days where I've ordered the Boyfriend to meet me at the pub after work so I can press pause for an hour before heading home to deal with general life admin with a reviving pint inside me. 

But there are still touches that press pause on life and give a moment of reflection. Good touches. 

A ladybird crawling up my arm

The water of the swimming pool closing over my limbs

Clean sheets against smooth legs

The squidge of damsons in their draining bag

Mabel's spiky claw puncturing my thumb as I tease her with a grass stem and forget about her lightning reflexes (and in-built weaponry)

The feather-stroke of a newly planted fern

The brush of the heavy-duty cotton my new winter skirt is made from.

 

Mabel. Comepletely not sorry about the spiky incident. 

August at the Allotment

I've always found August a strange month, weather wise. We're just as likely to have storms and overcast days as we do sunny ones. Twice, I found myself looking longingly at tights, or having to call the Boyfriend for a lift home because I'd been caught out in summer gear and it was raining fit to bust the drains. We stayed away from the crowds by staying at home and focusing on the garden there, as well as the allotment.

In truth, the latter needed little in the way of attention other than regular strimming, weeding and harvesting. The garden at home however...it's fair to say we inherited a blank weedy slate where that was concerned and this year, after 12 months of watching it's moods and the way the light shifts round it, the Boyfriend was ready to spring into action: painting fences, putting up trellis, digging in flower beds and laying a new path. It's all looking good. Next up is a pond.

I focused on the harvest at the allotment and, in truth, was glad when the courgette plants had exhausted themselves. They were pulled up, some compost dug in and then swede and turnip seeds planted. I'm a little late with the turnips, but hope (and Indian summers) springs eternal.

 

Also, turnips. The name of my blue grass band.  

We had some sizeable gales that took down another tree at the canal-end of the plot, so I'm now waiting for the only tree surgeon (he's probably not but he's the only one the site reps use, so he's much in demand and lacksadaisical when it comes to replying to messages) in the city to come and get rid of the fallen ones. After some thought, I've decided that the remaining elder can come down too. As 2 of it's siblings have proved too feeble to stand upright any more, I think the future stability of the last is probably in question. Down it will come, then I can clear the area and finally get a shed up there. 

A shed that I will paint blue with a yellow door, with deckchairs inside and a curse that will automatically cast on anyone who breaks into it with malicious intent. Not that I've given this any thought, you understand. 

It is with great sadness and no glee At All that I must report that the Big Bean Structure also took a pounding in the storms and toppled over...oh, okay; I'll admit to a small jig of glee. 40 runner bean plants are too many, even for a man with a chutney plan, and especially for a man with a chutney plan but very little will to actually pick the damn things. Next year he is restricted to just 10. 

 

Beans be down.

Membrane went down over what will be the asparagus bed. I blooming love asparagus but I do not love the £2.99 for 6 stems price tag you find in most supermarkets, so I shall Grow My Own next year. This has also been prompted by the fact I've seen asparagus fronds in there over spring and summer, so there's clearly already something asparagus-like in there. I'm hoping that simply by clearing the impacted weeds from the surface, we may actually see it return in the spring. That, or I'll have to buy my own seeds and it'll be another 3 years before we get a crop to it. Totally worth it.

 

Beans be chutney. 

Of course, August was also all about the damsons and I'm pleased to report that my first ever attempt at damson jelly turned out just fine, despite the local shop's lack of preserving sugar (I used plain old granulated). It is slightly more mobile than jelly should be, so I've christened it Damson Lava, but it is still darned good. I had a bit of a damson jelly epiphany when I realised that's probably what we soggy old Brits used before cranberry jelly turned up: I'll be testing my theory against the stodge of Christmas dinner and will report back. 

The world is still very much hell-in-a-handcart right now in ways that I worry about but cannot let override my need to carry on like there's a future. An hour or 2 up on the plot sorts me out. This morning as I contemplated the next job, there was a family of long tailed tits in the tree above me, the fledgelings still tiny and fluffy. Wherever there are tits, there is hope. 

And yes, you may put your own spin on that. Just don't tell me about it.

 

Tits be gone. Seriously, don't @ me. 

My Week in ...

... touch. I'm a very tactile person and the way something feels is hugely important to me. It's one of the reasons I stopped wearing vintage clothing - I couldn't bear the feel of crimplene on my skin. See also, real wool. Itchy itchy itchy. 

However, these 7 touches gave me all the good feels:

Mabel fur. Yes, I am a little obsessed but she is warm and soft and fluffy, and won't be this way forever, so I'm indulging

The rough surface and slight prickle of the runner bean, courgette and cucumber plants on the allotment

Silken petals on the rose my parent's got me for my birthday

Early morning grass under my bare feet as I pad across to hang the washing out

The whisper-soft brush of the grasses that have seeded in our tiny garden and that dance next to me as I'm weeding

Making focaccia, I'm momentarily distracted by the pilllowy suppleness of the dough under my fingers, mesmerised by how it rises back from the kneading

The fuzz of my boyfriend's newly shaved head. 

July at the Allotment

The grand harvest has begun and what a harvest it is! Even with only a few functioning beds while I work on developing the rest of the plot, there has been an abundance of produce. I'm leaving runner beans on neighbours doorsteps and freezing as much as possible. 

The courgettes produce on a daily basis and on a couple of occasions I've left one that was just the small side of perfect only to come back the next day to find it has ballooned to nigh-on marrow size. We've had them stir-fried, bhaji-d, added to casseroles and done simply with butter and thyme and served on toast. I'm not entirely convinced courgette jam is the way to go, but I may not have an option. Of the 2 types we've had - yellow and green - the former are the most delicious. I shall stick to those in future.

 

The beans have produced a whopping 6lbs so far and I spent a Sunday topping, tailing, de-stringing and chopping into small pieces, 4 of those 6lbs. These have been blanched and are now in the freezer waiting for a free weekend when we can turn them into chutney. 

The squash are curling themselves across the beds and I've made a note to plant them in a different location next year as they are slightly in the way. They should be a bumper crop too. 

The wildflowers are spectacular, bursts of colour at the top of the allotment that the bees go crazy for. The borage had a total of 10 honeybees on there when I last checked, all of them heads down, bums up, almost drunk on the pollen they were harvesting.

 

All of the potatoes are up now and I lugged home the last 17lbs of them at the weekend. I'm letting the beds rest until we've built the cabbage cage and then the seedlings can go in, safe from butterfly eggs and pigeons. The planned asparagus bed has been covered over so the weeds can die down before being dug over in winter. 

                                                   

And I finally finished digging out the fruit cage area! That really was a battle of woman against plot as I dug through 3 years of accumulated weeds, grass, bramble root and leavings from previous tenants. I'm now unsure that it's big enough but, as the boyfriend pointed out, we can always extend it next year. 

It is still one of my favourite places to be. My colleague recently gave me a "return to work" gift of a little green notebook with a Moomin on the front and the quote "I only want to live in peace and plant potatoes and dream". I'm with you there, Moomin Papa.

All the Small Things #2

Today, walking past a conifer hedge, I deliberately brush against it, pinch off a piece so I can smell its deep green herbal aroma, I am 7 again, my 5 year old sister behind me as I push through the conifers at the bottom of our grandparent's garden. I am convinced we will find Narnia, or its summer equivalent. 

Back in reality, our Grandad is in the plastic greenhouse, tending his tomatoes, our Gran in the kitchen making spaghetti bolognese with peas, to serve with ready-grated parmesan from a plastic shaker. 

We don't find Narnia but we do find the next garden, full of big leafy trees and a winding path up to the house.A dog barks as we make a few tentative steps along it and we push back to safety.