First Day Back At The Allotments
The Sun Came Out — And So Did We
Well.
There it was.
After what honestly felt like a year — and I mean that almost literally — the clouds finally parted, the rain had the decency to stop falling, and something extraordinary happened.
The sun came out.
Now I know. I know. For most people a bit of sun in late winter is pleasant. Nice. Cheery. A welcome change.
For me it's practically a national event.
I was standing at the window watching it like a man who had just been told he'd won something. Coat on. Wellies nearby. Plans forming.
Tuesday came and the sun was still there — brazenly showing off — and that was all the encouragement we needed. Wellies on. Coats zipped up. Off we went.
The three of us — me, Sam, and Iris — heading to the allotment with that particular energy you only get after weeks of being rained off and kept indoors staring at seed catalogues wondering if spring is ever actually going to arrive.
It was.
And here it was.
First Things First — The Raspberries
Now, the raspberries had been on the list for a while.
A good while.
Every time we'd been up there in recent weeks there they were… waving at us. Reproachfully. Like they knew they needed sorting and were waiting to see how long we'd let it go.
Sam spotted them immediately, did that very Sam thing of not saying much, and went and got the shears.
Within minutes he was at them.
I should say here — we do this our way. Always have. There are plenty of people who will tell you to thin raspberries selectively. Keep the best canes. Choose the strongest. Measure the spacing. All very sensible advice, I'm sure.
We don't do any of that.
We take the lot back to a foot from the ground.
All of it. The whole lot. Clean slate.
Every single time someone new finds out we do this, I get the look. You know the one. The raised eyebrow. The slight wince. The "oh… are you sure that's right?" expression.
And every single time I give the same answer.
Yes. Absolutely sure.
Because here's the thing — it works. It has always worked. We have never — not once — had a poor crop as a result of this approach. Year after year those raspberries come back, grow strong, and produce beautifully.
So we stick to what works.
Sam didn't need telling twice. Shears out, straight to 12 from the ground, job done with that quiet efficiency he has that I secretly admire. While he was cutting, me and Iris started picking up the old canes — and there were plenty of them — stacking them up neatly behind the two sheds. Back and forth. Back and forth. Iris is brilliant at this. No fuss. Just gets on with it.
We're a good little team, the three of us.
The Dead Pile — A Winter's Worth of Chaos
Once the raspberries were sorted, we turned our attention to what I had been quietly dreading.
The dead pile.
Now — in fairness to ourselves — everyone who has an allotment knows how this happens. During the busy back end of last season everything came to an end more or less at once. The sweetcorn had finished. The old plants had done their job. And rather than spending time we didn't have taking everything to the compost bin there and then, we made a temporary pile at the bottom of one of the gardens.
Temporary — that most optimistic of allotment words.
By the time winter had finished doing what winter does, that temporary pile had become… something else entirely. The old sweetcorn stems alone were considerable. Add to that what must have been approaching a thousand dead plants — and I am only slightly exaggerating — and you start to understand why I'd been looking at it sideways for a while.
But today was the day.
Wheelbarrows out.
And there is something very satisfying about a good wheelbarrow run. You load it up, you trundle it across to the compost bin, you tip it in, you watch all that old brown material fall in, and you think — right, that'll turn into something useful. I love composting. Always have. There's something almost magical about the fact that all of this dead stuff is going to become rich, dark, crumbly compost by the time we need it most. It's one of those things that never gets old for me.
Load by load we worked through it.
By the end of the day both gardens were looking dramatically better. The temporary pile was gone. The compost bin was very happily full. And we were ready for a brew.
That was enough for Tuesday.
Wednesday — The Rotovator Has Its Day
Wednesday was rotovating day.
Sam couldn't make it first thing — he was finishing a shift — so it was down to me and Iris to get things moving.
Now, before we could do anything, the rotovator needed its wheels put on and a refuel. For anyone not familiar — the rotovator lives with its transport wheels off during winter and needs a bit of attention before it gets going again. It's a little ritual we've developed. A pre-season check. Reassure yourself everything is in order. Give it fuel. Give it a moment of appreciation.
We got the wheels on.
Refuelled.
I pulled the cord.
Nothing.
Pulled again.
Nothing.
I wasn't going to mention the third pull because these things always sound better when it starts on the first pull, but I'll be honest with you — third pull it was. And then it fired up with that familiar sound that absolutely makes me smile every single time. Running sweetly. Sounding great. Ready for action.
Off I went.
There is honestly something deeply satisfying about rotovating a winter-hard plot of ground and watching it turn into something workable. The soil breaking up. The smell of it. The whole process of turning something that looks tired and compacted into proper growing ground. I don't care how many times I do it — I still enjoy every single pass.
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While I was busy on the rotovator, Iris had grabbed the trusted hoe and gone straight to work on the overwintering onions.
And those onions — I have to say — are looking absolutely magnificent. They've come through the winter looking strong, healthy, and very much like they know exactly what they're doing. Iris worked her way along the rows tidying everything up, and by the time I was nearly done with the first plot, she'd got them back in perfect shape.
Sam arrived just as I was finishing up, straight from his shift, and without so much as a sit down got on the rotovator and cracked on. That's Sam. No fuss. Just does the job.
Within thirty minutes — half an hour, that's all it took — both gardens were done. Both plots back in shape. Ready for the new season.
Two gardens. Three of us. Thirty minutes at the end.
That's teamwork.
An Unexpected Bonus — The Brussels Sprouts
Now I have to tell you about the Brussels sprouts.
Because they deserve a mention.
The pigeons had been at them. That's the polite way of saying the pigeons had absolutely hammered them. If pigeons had an allotment hit list, ours would be near the top. They had done a proper job on the sprouts this winter. I'd seen the state of them on earlier visits and tried not to think about it too much.
But when we had a proper look on Tuesday…
There was still a harvest there.
Good solid Brussels sprouts, still clinging on, defying the pigeon onslaught with what I can only describe as quiet stubbornness.
I love Brussels sprouts. They are probably my favourite vegetable if I'm being completely honest. People always look surprised when I say that. "Brussels sprouts?" Yes. Brussels sprouts. And mine are always worth waiting for.
Sara will be pleased.
She knows exactly what to do with them — and they won't be wasted, I can promise you that.
Thursday — The Finishing Touches
Thursday we were back again.
Because that's the thing about a good run of weather. You don't waste it. You use every single day it gives you.
This time the job was an oil change on the rotovator — proper maintenance, keeping it right, which is something I feel quite strongly about — and then taking down the old cabbage tunnel.
The cabbage tunnel had done its job. Good long service. But it was time to come down, and once it was down the ground it had been sitting on needed clearing and preparing.
It didn't take long.
But honestly?
I'd have spent all day up there just for the sake of being outside in some sunshine.
That's the honest truth of it. After weeks of grey skies and rain and that particular winter feeling of being slightly cooped up and slightly fed up, just being out in proper daylight with a bit of warmth on your face is worth more than I can properly explain.
I love the allotment in all its seasons.
But I do miss the sun.
I really do.
What It All Means
Three days. Two gardens. A team of three.
Raspberries cut back. Dead pile gone. Onions hoeing-perfect. Both plots rotovated. Oil changed. Tunnel down. Ground cleared.
The allotment feels alive again.
That's the only way I can describe it. After the long winter pause, after the rain and the mud and the waiting, it feels like the season has properly begun. There's a momentum now. A rhythm. You can look at both plots and actually start to picture what goes where. What we're growing. What we're planning.
The seed trays will be coming out soon.
Plans are already forming.
And the sun — fingers crossed — will keep visiting.
It's been a long winter.
But we're back.
Simon, Sam and Iris — down on the allotment. Right where we belong.
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