Digging for Buried Treasure: Our Maincrop Potato Harvest
There's a particular kind of daftness that comes over this family once the potato haulms start dying back, and it hit us right on cue this week. You'd think, after all these years, I'd have learned to read the signs calmly, pick a sensible day, maybe even check the weather forecast first. Instead, Sam took one look at the brown foliage on that good plot of ours, the one that's been carrying us through this whole drought business, and announced "right, that's them then." By half nine we were up there with forks, buckets and absolutely no plan whatsoever, as most daft ideas in this family do. I'm not complaining, mind. There's not much in gardening that beats the first fork-full of a potato bed turning over to reveal a nest of spuds sat there like they've been waiting for you. Sixty years old and I still get a little thrill out of it every single time. Some things never wear off. Reading the Signs (Or, How We Knew It Was Time) Now, I'll ...
