Wheelbarrow of Abundance: A Glimpse into My Allotment Harvest

There are few pleasures as grounding and quietly joyful as harvesting your own food. This week, I found myself standing at the edge of my allotment, hands muddy, heart full, looking down at a wheelbarrow overflowing with produce. It was the kind of moment that makes all the hours of digging, sowing, weeding, and watering worth every ache and sunburn.

The wheelbarrow was a colourful and chaotic celebration of late summer — an edible collage of all that’s good about growing your own.

At the top, almost as if showing off, sat a few firm and glossy courgettes, their skin striped with green and pale yellow. This year they’ve been prolific, soaking up the warm spells and the rain, growing fat and fast. I’ve learned to pick them small, before they become huge — tender and perfect for griddling, tossing into pasta, or baking into a savoury loaf.

Next to them, bunches of beetroot rested like small purple treasures still dusted with soil, their long taproots curling underneath and their crimson-veined leaves looking almost too pretty to discard. I love beetroot roasted with olive oil and thyme, or grated raw into a salad — earthy, sweet, and vibrant.

Tucked in close were a couple of cabbages, their outer leaves a little nibbled by wildlife, but inside, crisp and dense. There’s something ancient and reassuring about a good cabbage — humble, nourishing, and surprisingly versatile. I’ll likely shred one into coleslaw and the other into a comforting stir-fry.

Spilling out in soft layers were two heads of lettuce, picked early in the morning while still cool and dewy. one for us and one for our elderly friends. I always forget how fast lettuce grows, and how satisfying it is to tear into leaves that just hours ago were part of a living, growing plant. These will become the base of countless lunches over the next few days

 I found myself smiling at the sight of the tomatoes, their skins cracked from the heat and blushing red and gold. After months of watching them flower, set fruit, and slowly ripen, this was their moment. There’s nothing quite like a sun-warmed tomato eaten fresh off the plant — it tastes of summer itself.

A little deeper were the carrots, some perfectly straight, others wonderfully crooked and characterful. Pulling carrots never gets old — the surprise of their size and shape, the way the soil releases them with just the right twist. These ones smell sweet and strong, destined for roasting or maybe a carrot and coriander soup.

And then, nestled in an old bucket at the corner of the barrow, were the raspberries. Plump, soft, and deeply red, they almost didn’t make it home. I picked them slowly, tasting every few, the sun bringing out their fragrance. There’s a wildness to raspberries — a fleeting fruit, never quite the same from one day to the next. I might scatter them over porridge, or simply eat them as they are.

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This wheelbarrow wasn’t just full of food — it was full of time, care, weather, patience. It was full of evenings spent watering after work, early mornings checking for slugs, days spent planting and hoping. It was a small, wheeled monument to the beauty of growing.

Having an allotment has taught me so much more than gardening. It’s taught me to slow down, to pay attention, to accept imperfection. Nature doesn’t rush, and neither should we. And when you finally gather the fruits of your labour, the satisfaction is deeper than taste — it’s connection. To the earth, to the seasons, to something timeless.

We will be cooking up this harvest over the next few days, and already looking forward to the next one. Because in gardening, as in life, there’s always more to come.