Why the Garden Keeps Me Going — And Why Doing It Together Makes It Even Better
This isn't going to be a post about what I've planted, or how the onions are coming along, or whether the courgettes have forgiven me for last week. No. This one's a bit different. This one's about why I actually bother. Because here's the thing. I'm sixty years old. I work evenings through to the early hours. My knees know about it. My back knows about it. Some mornings I get out of bed and various parts of me make noises that would give a gravel path a run for its money. Getting older is, if I'm being completely honest, a bit of a liberty. Nobody warns you quite how much of it sneaks up on you. One day you're leaping over fences on the allotment and the next you're having a quiet word with your hips before attempting a step ladder. And yet. Every single time I get up that plot and get my hands in the soil, something shifts. Something always shifts. I can't fully explain it, and I've tried. Sara's heard me try to explain it over many a...
