The Broadfork

Well, if ever there was proof that you can’t argue with the weather, this past stretch has been it. Rain, more rain, and just for variety… heavier rain. The sort that doesn’t politely soak in but sits there staring at you as if to say, “Go on then, try and work me.”

The allotment soil has gone from workable to sticky to something that could quite easily be used to mortar bricks. You walk across it and it clings to your boots like it’s afraid you’re leaving for good. And the worst of it? The compaction.

Now I don’t mind hard ground in summer — that’s honest dryness. But this is different. This is soil that’s been rained on, walked on, rained on again and then politely flattened by gravity for good measure. The paths are firm as concrete and even some of the beds are tightening up more than I’d like.

And that brings us to the rotavator.

Normally, I enjoy getting it out. There’s something satisfying about firing it up and watching it chew through the soil like a hungry badger. It’s done us proud over the years. But lately? It’s been struggling. Instead of biting in and pulling itself forward, it just judders and skates across the top like it’s changed its mind halfway through the job.

That’s when the old fork comes out.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a digging fork. It’s traditional. It’s honest. It’s how it’s always been done. But when you’re having to ram it into compacted, wet ground just to break up a patch so the rotavator can actually do its job… well, it rather defeats the point of owning a machine in the first place.

You stab, you bounce on it, you wiggle it about like you’re trying to free Excalibur from the stone. Then you lever back and feel that familiar pull across the lower back — the little reminder that you’re not twenty-five anymore.

Sam, bless him, just gets on with it. “I don’t mind the hard work, Dad,” he says.

Of course he doesn’t. He’s young. His back still believes in miracles.

But here’s the thing — I can’t just stand there supervising while he does all the graft. That’s not how this works. We’ve always done this side by side. We’ve turned over tons of soil together over the years. I might be getting older, but I’m not ready to become the man who points at weeds and says, “That one there.”

So I’ve been thinking.

Dangerous, I know.

The tool that keeps popping into my mind is the broadfork.

Now, for anyone not familiar with it, a broadfork looks like something a medieval farmer might have leaned against a barn wall. It’s wide — hence the name — with several long tines and two upright handles. No engine. No noise. No drama. Just steel and leverage.

The modern version most of us recognise actually traces back to France in the 1960s, where it was developed as the “Grelinette.” The idea was simple but clever: loosen the soil deeply without turning it over and destroying its structure. Instead of chopping and churning like a rotavator, the broadfork lifts and fractures the soil, opening it up while keeping the layers intact.

And that’s important.

Over the years, we’ve all learned more about soil life. Worms, fungi, microbes — all those tiny unseen workers doing the real graft underground. A rotavator can do a wonderful job, but it also mixes everything up. Sometimes that’s fine. Sometimes, especially when the ground is wet and compacted, it just smears and clumps.

A broadfork works differently. You stand on the crossbar, sink the tines down using your body weight, then lean back on the handles. The soil lifts and cracks. You step back, repeat, and gradually work across the bed. No flipping. No spinning. Just loosening.

It’s slower than a machine — no point pretending otherwise — but it’s also controlled. And importantly for me, it uses weight and leverage instead of brute force.

Now I’m not looking for shortcuts. I’ve always believed that gardening should involve effort. There’s something honest about finishing a job and knowing you’ve earned your cup of tea. But there’s effort… and then there’s being daft.

When your back starts reminding you of every sack of compost you’ve ever lifted, it’s time to work smarter.

The problem we’ve got right now is those compacted strips where the rotavator simply won’t bite. We break them up with a fork first, then run the machine over. That double-handling is what’s wearing me down. If a broadfork could crack that compaction in one pass, we could then decide whether the rotavator is even needed.

And there’s another thought creeping in.

The broadfork fits nicely with the way we’ve been edging more toward looking after the soil rather than just working it. We compost heavily. We mulch. we manure. We try not to tread on the beds more than necessary. Using something that respects the soil structure instead of pulverising it has its appeal.

Of course, I can already hear some of you saying, “Here he goes, buying another tool.”

Possibly.

But if a tool saves your back and improves the soil, is it indulgence or investment?

That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

Sam says he’ll happily keep doing the heavy bits. And I know he means it. But there’s something in me that refuses to step aside. This allotment has always been ours — not his to labour on while I stand with folded arms. We work together. That’s the whole point.

So perhaps the broadfork isn’t about avoiding work. Perhaps it’s about sharing it properly for longer.

If it means I can still be out there in ten years’ time, stepping on those tines, leaning back, cracking open stubborn ground without feeling like I’ve been in a wrestling match with a tractor — then that sounds sensible to me.

And let’s be honest, there’s something rather satisfying about using a well-designed, simple tool. No fuel. No carburettor to clean. No pull cord to yank. Just steel, soil and steady rhythm.

Mind you, knowing my luck, the minute I buy one the sun will come out, the ground will dry perfectly, and the rotavator will suddenly behave like it’s been blessed.

That’s gardening for you.

Still, as I look out at those compacted patches and feel that familiar stiffness after a long session with the fork, I can’t help thinking it might be time to try something different.

Old design. Sensible approach. A bit kinder to the back.

We’ll see.

If nothing else, it gives us something new to talk about while the rain taps on the shed roof and the soil slowly decides whether it wants to cooperate this year.

And if the broadfork does turn out to be the answer?

Well, I’ll happily admit it — even if I still pretend I don’t need the help.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about proving how hard we can work.

It’s about keeping working.

And that’s what matters.