Down the allotment

03 Apr Down the allotment

Last Tuesday was a hot day. It was as if summer had sent out a scout to see if the time was right for it to make its big entrance. The sun shone, the mercury hit 22 degrees. 30^th March and memories of last year’s glorious spring seeped back into my thoughts. A few hours down the allotment was a perfect prospect. And with lockdown eased, at last all four of us plotters could be there together for the first time since we took on Plot 12F in Royal Paddocks Allotments in October.

There was a little bit of work, of course. But mostly we drank tea or coffee from our flasks, chatted, soaked up the sun, pointed to this and that, made plans, dreamed of rows of plump strawberries, fat broad beans, stems of colourful chard, succulent salad leaves, bushes dripping with raspberries and blackcurrants, our beds overflowing with perfect produce. And pinched ourselves that finally, we’re here. 

The winter’s work has been done singly or in pairs. We’ve been very observant of the rules. It was hard work rescuing the plot from a few years of intermittent neglect: things overgrown, old plastic sheeting throttling new growth, brambles gone bonkers. I’ve loved it even on the cold days when the physical work warms you up and absorbs you so that you can, for a while, forget all the horrors in the world and just concentrate on clearing, digging up weeds and roots, shaking them gently, turning over the soil to see it glisten in the moist air, feeling the earth in your hands. Who knows if we did it all the right way or in the right order. We’re quite new to this lark so we’re watching, asking, googling, learning as we go and probably making lots of mistakes. Do we care? Only a bit. Our shed is repaired and repainted, our planting plan is made and includes plenty of flowers. Our plot will be a place of eye-watering beauty and, with a bit of luck, mouth-watering bounty. 

But especially of calm. When you enter through the gate into the Royal Paddocks Allotments you enter another world. Tucked behind a wall in the south-east corner of Bushy Park it’s a shock when you get in there and see how spacious it is. The atmosphere hits you immediately – the effort and industry and the enormous sense of calm. Each plot is different, the layout, the crops, the sheds or lack of them, the splashes of colour from spring bulbs. Old wellingtons upturned on poles to scare the birds, wheelbarrows of metal rusted with age or of gleaming bright plastic leaning against sheds fashioned from random pieces of wood or built to look exactly like the one in the catalogue. Smart, modern, purpose-built bins stand alongside old wooden pallets perched on their sides and nailed together to make perfectly serviceable compost bins. Makeshift and haphazard co-exists with new, neat and ordered. It’s a great mix of styles that somehow achieves a glorious sense of harmony.

When I’m there it sometimes feels as if I’ve travelled back in time. Remnants of old, ramshackle structures, like the ancient pump that stands beside our plot to summon up groundwater when the weather is dry. The pace of life in here feels like the pace of 50 years ago. You take time; vegetables don’t grow any quicker than they did back then – at least not much. We must allow for the seasons, wait for them. It’s soothing this calibration to the pace of the earth and the seasons. The work is hard, it needs time and patience. And that all feels right, grounded, balanced. In perfect tune.