Bread Fails

 

Well, it’s been a bit of a slow week gardening-wise. Not much to show for all the effort, but that’s how it goes sometimes, isn’t it? You can have all the best intentions, the right tools, and a good dose of determination — but when machinery, weather, and dough have other ideas, you just have to laugh and carry on.

The week started off with high hopes for getting the merry tiller back into action. We had got hold of a new drive belt for the old girl, and I was itching to get her back to full working order. The plan was simple enough — take the new belt down to the allotment, fit it, and finish rotavating the lower plot before the ground turned too wet to work.

Wrestling with the Merry Tiller

Of course, as always, things didn’t quite go according to plan.

Me, Sam, and Iris loaded up the tools, the new belt, and a good bit of optimism, then headed to the allotment. The morning was one of those damp, grey ones — not exactly inviting, but not enough to put us off either. We laid the tiller on the grass and got stuck in. It’s a Wolseley Merry Tiller Super Major, a fine old machine, but it certainly likes to make you work for your rewards.

Getting the old belt off was a right performance. Between stretching, pulling, and a fair bit of muttering, we finally got it free. Then came the challenge of getting the new belt on — not much space to manoeuvre, pulleys stiff from years of service, and damp grass beneath our knees. Iris was passing spanners, Sam was holding things steady, and I was doing my best impression of a contortionist.

Eventually, after much pulling and pushing, we had it fitted. It looked good and snug, and I could already picture the merry tiller chomping its way through the soil once again.

A couple of pulls on the starting cord, and the old engine burst into life. That familiar roar and puff of blue smoke was enough to make me grin — until the noise started. A high-pitched squeal, followed by the unmistakable smell of burning rubber.

My heart sank. I shut it off straight away, and we all crouched down to investigate. The new belt was rubbing against the shaft — not by much, but enough to make a nasty smell and leave a black mark of melted rubber. After a few more checks, we realised the entire engine had shifted slightly on its base, just enough to throw everything out of line.

So there we were, the three of us kneeling in the wet grass, trying to loosen five rusty bolts to realign the motor. Every turn of the spanner was met with a groan from the metal — and a few choice words from me, I’ll admit. But no matter what we did, we couldn’t get it to sit straight. The old girl wasn’t having any of it.

In the end, I admitted defeat. The merry tiller will have to come home for a proper repair session in the shed. I’ll need to strip the mounting plate and see what’s shifted or worn away. Not what we’d planned, but that’s how it goes with old machines — they keep you humble.

Onion Planting with Iris

A couple of days later, me and Iris headed back up for another go at something more peaceful. I’d sown some winter onions back in September — a variety called Keep Well. They’re a lovely type for overwintering, though the seedlings are smaller and more delicate than onions grown from sets.

We managed to get 52 planted up that morning. The soil was damp but workable, and Iris did a cracking job spacing them evenly. I’m sure they’ll catch up in no time — they might look small now, but once they get their roots down, they’ll be away. There are still around 50 more to plant, so that’ll be next week’s job, weather permitting.

I have to say, it’s nice having Iris helping with the planting. She’s got a good eye for neatness, and she always makes me laugh with her dry humour. We chatted about everything, the cold weather, and how the allotment looks so different this time of year — quieter, but still full of life in its own way. There’s something quite calming about planting onions on a cool autumn morning, knowing they’ll sit quietly all winter, ready to burst into growth in spring.

Saturday Baking Day

After the mechanical failures and muddy knees, Saturday rolled around — which in our house means baking day. There’s something deeply satisfying about filling the kitchen with the smell of fresh bread, especially when the weather keeps you indoors.

This week I’d ordered some new flour from Doves — a traditional unbleached bread flour that looked promising. I placed the order on Wednesday and, true to form, it arrived on Friday. Their service is brilliant — quick, reliable, and always good quality.

I set about making two mixes: one for a batch of cobs, and another for two loaves to bake in my Pullman tins. Everything started perfectly. The yeast was lively, the dough smooth and springy, and both bowls were sitting in a warm spot rising beautifully.

Now, here’s where things went a bit sideways. I had my flu jab booked just before lunchtime, so I thought — being clever — I’d leave both doughs to rise again while I popped to the surgery. That way, they’d be perfectly ready for shaping when I got back.

You can probably guess what happened next.

By the time I’d been jabbed, come home, and had a bit of lunch, the cob dough was just about ready to knock back — but the loaf dough had turned into a monster. It had grown so much it was practically crawling out of the bowl, spilling over the edge like something from an old science fiction film.

Still, I managed to rescue the cobs and get them shaped nicely. They baked up a treat — golden, crusty, and full of flavour. But the Pullman loaf dough was another story. No matter what I did, it refused to rise again after being knocked back. It just sat there, stubborn as a mule.

I tried coaxing it with a bit more warmth and patience, but no luck. In the end, I baked it anyway — flat as a pancake but still tasty. I suppose that’s baking for you — it keeps you guessing, just like gardening.

Sunday Morning Success

Not one to be beaten, I mixed another dough first thing Sunday morning. This time I gave it my full attention — no distractions, no jabs, and no long lunches. Everything went smoothly from start to finish, and the result was a beautiful Pullman loaf with a perfect top and a soft, even crumb.

It reminded me how satisfying it is to get things right after a hiccup. There’s a real sense of achievement in turning flour, water, and yeast into something so simple yet so rewarding.

Looking Ahead

So, not the most productive week on the allotment, but far from wasted. The merry tiller will get some proper attention in the shed, the onions are in the ground, and the bread tins have been filled once again. Sometimes the quieter weeks — the ones that test your patience — are the ones that make you appreciate the rhythm of it all.

Gardening and baking both have that in common: they teach you patience, persistence, and the importance of starting again when things go wrong.

Next week, I’ll hopefully get the rest of the onions planted, and if the weather holds, maybe even start tidying around the brassicas. The compost bins could do with turning too — there’s always something that needs doing, even when the pace slows down.

Until then, I’ll keep the kettle on, keep the oven warm, and keep that merry tiller waiting for her turn back in the spotlight.