Crime on the Allotments

 Unwanted Visitors

There are some things you expect on an allotment. Slugs. Bindweed. Weather forecasts that lie through their teeth. What you don’t expect — or at least shouldn’t — is to arrive one morning and feel that horrible sinking feeling that someone’s been poking about where they don’t belong.

Yet here we are again.

Once again, our allotments have been burgled. Thankfully, I was missed by a whisper this time — and I don’t mind admitting I let out a quiet sigh of relief when I unlocked my shed and found everything exactly where I’d left it. But that relief didn’t last long, because several of my neighbours weren’t so lucky.

And that’s the thing with these break-ins. Even when you’re spared, it still leaves a sour taste. It’s like hearing the thunder roll past your house knowing it’s flattened the village down the road.

Well, a month of waiting for payday for many, and times are hard for many of us — but I’m not sure I can understand anyone who thinks they can take something someone else has paid for.

I’ve turned that sentence over in my head more than once this week.

Let’s be clear: allotments aren’t goldmines. We’re not hoarding treasure chests and antique silverware. What we have is the result of early mornings, aching backs, cold fingers, and years of graft. Most of what’s in our sheds has been saved up for, bought second-hand, repaired three times over, and cherished far more than its monetary value would ever suggest.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the unwanted visitors.

One of my neighbours had their shed properly ransacked. Doors forced, tools tossed about like yesterday’s rubbish. At the time of writing, the committee hasn’t been able to get hold of them, so we don’t even know what’s been taken — which somehow makes it worse. There’s a special cruelty in leaving someone to discover the damage in their own time.

Then there’s Jane, two plots away. Her shed was broken into as well, but nothing was taken. Instead, it was vandalised. Tea and coffee-making gear smashed. Kettle, mugs, the little comforts that make a cold day bearable — ruined for no reason other than spite.

If you’re going to steal, it’s bad enough. But that? That’s just mean-spirited. That’s someone going out of their way to spoil another person’s small joy.

And then there’s Gary.

Gary is the proud owner of a thirty-foot polytunnel and several sheds — a proper setup built over years, not overnight. He’s poured time, money, and no small amount of swearing into that plot. His sheds were broken into and a fairly new petrol strimmer was taken.

Anyone who’s ever bought a strimmer knows they’re not cheap, and anyone who’s ever used one knows you don’t part with a good one lightly. That wasn’t a casual grab; that was someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

This is the first break-in of the year, and I truly hope it’s the last. But if I’m being honest — and I usually am — I can’t see that being the case. With the climate as it is, and everyone paying through the nose for everything from food to electricity, I fear this won’t be the last visit our allotments receive from unwanted thieves.

Now, before anyone starts sharpening their pitchforks, let me say this: I understand hardship. I really do. Most allotment holders aren’t exactly rolling in it. We grow because it saves money, yes — but also because it feeds the soul, keeps us sane, and gives us purpose. We know what it’s like to make do, mend, repair, reuse, and squeeze another season out of something that should’ve been scrapped years ago.

What I don’t understand is the leap from “things are hard” to “I’ll help myself to someone else’s graft.”

That leap ignores something fundamental: allotments are communities. We look out for each other. We share seedlings, advice, surplus courgettes (whether wanted or not), and the odd cup of tea. Stealing from an allotment isn’t stealing from a faceless organisation — it’s stealing from Doris with the bad knee, from Gary and his polytunnel pride, from Jane who just wanted a quiet brew in her shed.

And here’s the thing that really gets under my skin: most allotment tools aren’t flashy. They’re old, battered, and well-used. Half of mine have more repairs than original parts. So whoever took that strimmer didn’t just nick a machine — they nicked hours of labour it was meant to save, jobs it was meant to make possible, and plans that now have to be put on hold.

Security will now, inevitably, be discussed. Better locks. Stronger doors. Maybe cameras. Maybe patrols. All of which cost money — money that could’ve gone into compost, seeds, or keeping rents down. It’s a sad sign of the times when a place meant for peace and growing food starts to feel like it needs a prison-grade padlock.

And yet, despite it all, the allotments will carry on.

They always do.

Because for every thief, there are ten good people who’ll quietly fix a door, lend a tool, or keep an extra eye out. For every act of vandalism, there’s someone offering Jane a spare kettle or inviting her over for a brew. For every stolen strimmer, there’s a neighbour saying, “Use mine till you sort it.”

That’s the bit the thieves don’t understand.

You can take tools. You can smash mugs. You can make a mess. But you can’t steal the stubbornness of allotment folk. You can’t nick the quiet determination that gets someone back down there the very next day, sweeping up broken bits and carrying on regardless.

Still, I’d rather not have to prove that point too often.

So here’s my blunt message to whoever thinks allotments are easy pickings: they’re not. What you’re taking means more than you think, and you’re not hurting institutions — you’re hurting people.

And to my fellow plot holders: keep your sheds locked, keep your eyes open, and keep doing what you do best. Growing food, growing friendships, and refusing to let the worst of times turn us into the worst of people.

Here’s hoping this really is the last break-in of the year.

But if it isn’t — well, we’ll deal with it. We always do.