Slug War After the Big Dry
Now, I don't want to tempt fate, but after the summer we've just had, I reckon I could have grown tomatoes on the moon. Weeks and weeks without a proper drop of rain, the water butts down to a sad brown puddle at the bottom, and me stood there of an morning with a watering can like I was rationing gold dust. Iris kept telling me I was talking to the courgettes. I probably was. Desperate times. Then, as it always does in this country, the weather did a complete about-turn. One Tuesday it went from cracked earth and wilting French Beans to three solid days of proper, soaking Lincolnshire rain — the kind that gets right down into the soil and doesn't mess about. I stood at the allotment shed afterwards, cup of tea in hand, feeling like we'd been saved. The ground had gone from concrete to cake in about 48 hours. I even had a little dance about it, which Iris caught on her phone and threatened to put on her family group chat. Cheeky mare. But here's the thing nobody ...
