Searching The Seed Catalogues

 With the arrival of a new year comes many things. Fireworks that last about ten minutes, resolutions that last about ten days, and that strange period between Christmas and normal life where nobody knows what day it is and eating chocolate for breakfast feels perfectly acceptable. But for me, the true marker that a new year has begun isn’t the calendar or the weather – it’s the annual ritual of sitting down with seed catalogues, gardening websites, and a head full of wildly optimistic plans that, if I’m honest, have very little chance of all coming to pass.

Every single year I do it. I say I won’t, but I do. The catalogues arrive, or I go online “just for a quick look,” and before I know it I’m convinced that this year – yes, THIS year – I will finally crack it. The perfect combination of varieties, spacing, timing, and sheer stubbornness that will result in bumper crops, glowing praise from fellow plot holders, and vegetables so impressive they practically harvest themselves.

Has it ever worked?
Not once.
Do I keep trying?
Of course I do. I’m a gardener, not a quitter.

In my mind, the plans are flawless. The weather behaves itself, the slugs take a year off, nothing bolts, nothing rots, and everything grows exactly as described in the catalogue photos. In reality, the weather laughs in my face, the slugs throw a party, and at least one crop sulks from the moment it’s planted. But still, every January, there I am again, highlighter in hand, circling seed packets like a man possessed.

I’ve spent years trying to find the perfect crops for our weather and region. Years. Decades, probably. And despite all that effort, I can safely say I have not once got it completely right. I’ve had good years, don’t get me wrong, and the odd crop that makes me puff my chest out a bit. But perfection? No. Elusive as ever. Still, the chase is half the fun, and if I ever did get it all right I’d probably be bored within a fortnight and start tinkering again anyway.

Onions: The First Domino to Fall

The first crop I’ll be sowing this year is onions. They always are. It feels right, like the official opening ceremony of the growing season. Now, in recent years I’ve gone over to growing onions from seed rather than the usual sets, and I don’t think I’ll ever go back.

Onion sets and I have a troubled history. They start off promising enough, all neat and tidy, but then they bolt. And bolt. And bolt some more. I don’t know if it’s our weather, my timing, or the fact they can sense my hope and decide to crush it, but sets bolt far too easily for my liking. There’s nothing quite like watching an onion shoot skyward and thinking, “Well, that’s another one for the compost.”

Growing from seed takes longer and requires a bit more patience, but I find the results far better. The onions seem steadier, more sensible, and less prone to dramatic outbursts. They’re like the grown-ups of the onion world. It does mean starting early, mind you, which brings me neatly to my first complication of the year.

I’m going to be a bit behind with the onions this time around. Not because I’ve been lazy (for once), but because the moving of the greenhouses is going to hold me up. Nothing is ever straightforward, is it? One job leads to another, which leads to three more, and before you know it the seed tray is still empty while you’re knee-deep in plans involving slabs, levels, and muttered swearing.

Once this cold weather finally passes and the ground unfreezes – assuming it ever does – I can order the slabs and get the process moving. Until then, everything is on pause. Gardening teaches patience, whether you like it or not. This year seems determined to give me a refresher course.

Potatoes: A Lifetime Habit Dies Hard

Now, potatoes. This is where things get a bit personal.

I always buy new seed potatoes. Always have, always will. It’s one of those non-negotiables for me. But this year, I’m cutting down the amount I grow. That sentence alone feels strange to write, let alone think about.

We’ve had a bit of a food change in our house, and with a few health issues thrown into the mix, the doctors have advised me to eat less of the good old potato. Sensible advice, apparently. Necessary advice, apparently. Easy advice to follow? Absolutely not.

I was brought up on potatoes. Properly brought up on them. My dad was an allotment man too, and every meal I can remember had a potato in it somewhere. And if it didn’t, it felt like something was missing. Potatoes weren’t a side dish – they were the foundation of the meal. Everything else just turned up for moral support.

Mashed, boiled, baked, chipped, fried – if there’s a way to cook a potato, I’ve eaten it. Probably repeatedly. For most of my life, a plate without potatoes would have felt incomplete, like a shed without a spade or a cuppa without a biscuit.

So just getting the potatoes right this year is going to be a push. Not growing too many, but enough. Choosing varieties I really enjoy, rather than planting half the allotment “just because.” It’s a mindset shift, and those don’t come easy after a lifetime of doing things one way.

Still, needs must. And I suppose it’s better to grow fewer really good potatoes than mountains of them that I then feel duty-bound to eat out of stubbornness.

Plans, Adjustments, and Reality Checks

As I flick through catalogues and scroll through websites, I can already feel the familiar tug-of-war between ambition and reality. Every year I say I’ll be sensible. Every year I almost manage it. Almost.

I’ll plan rotations that make perfect sense on paper, only to realise later that the ground is too wet, too frozen, or too occupied by something I forgot I planted. I’ll swear blind that this is the year I stick to the plan, and then change it three times before March is out.

And that’s alright. Gardening isn’t about rigid perfection. It’s about adapting, learning, and occasionally standing in the rain wondering why you ever thought this was a relaxing hobby.

There’s also something comforting about these annual rituals. Sitting down at the start of the year, making plans, dreaming a little. Even if half of it doesn’t happen, the act of planning itself feels like hope. Hope that the weather might be kinder, that the crops might behave, and that I’ll spend plenty of time on the allotment doing what I love.

Looking Ahead (With Fingers Crossed)

So here we are, another year, another set of plans. Some will work, some won’t, and a few will fail spectacularly just to keep me humble. The onions will be sown when they can be, the potatoes will be carefully rationed, and the greenhouses will eventually find their new homes – probably after a bit more head scratching than I’d like.

I’ll keep chasing that perfect crop, even though I know full well it probably doesn’t exist. And when things don’t go to plan, I’ll grumble, adapt, and carry on. Because that’s what gardeners do.

After all, if everything went perfectly, what would we have to moan about? And where would the fun be in that?

Here’s to a new year, fresh seeds, old habits, and the stubborn optimism that keeps us all coming back for more.