5 Things I've Learnt From Iris On The Allotment
Now, I want to be very careful how I word this, because there is a version of this post where I come across as a daft old man who didn't know what he was doing. And while that version would arguably be the most accurate, I'd like to think there's a slightly more flattering interpretation available. So let's go with this one: I am a man who has been allotment gardening for many years, who has learnt a tremendous amount along the way, and who has recently discovered — somewhat to his surprise — that his seventeen-year-old daughter knows things he doesn't.
There. That's the dignified version.
Iris has been coming up to the allotments with me and Sam since she was little, but over the past year or so she's gone from occasional helper to actual contributor. She notices things. She asks questions I can't always answer. And every now and then she says something so quietly obvious that I have to stop, lean on my spade, and have a little moment of silent reflection.
Here, in the spirit of honesty, are five things Iris has genuinely taught me. I am not embarrassed about this. Barely at all.
1. Slow Down and Actually Look At What You're Growing
I am a man who arrives at the allotment with a list. I have things to do. Beds to turn, seeds to sow, tools to clean. I am, by nature, a get-on-with-it sort of person. Iris, on the other hand, will wander over to a bed and just... stand there. Looking. Quietly inspecting a leaf. Crouching down to peer at something near the soil. At first I thought she was just dawdling. Then I started to notice that she was the one who spotted the first signs of aphids on the broad beans before they got out of hand. She was the one who noticed the courgette leaves starting to show that faint silvery mottling that says spider mite before I'd even registered anything was wrong.
She taught me, without ever saying it directly, that a slow wander around your plot with your eyes properly open is worth twenty minutes of frantic digging. I'm trying. I still arrive with a list. But I'm pausing more. Probably.
2. It Doesn't Have to Look Perfect to Be Worth Growing
I am, I admit, a little bit particular about presentation. I like a straight row. I like things labelled. I like the paths clear and the beds tidy. Iris plants things and steps back and says "that looks lovely," and I look at it and think "those onion sets are not equidistant." And she just beams at it like it's the Chelsea Flower Show.
But here's the thing. Her slightly chaotic little section always produces. Her flowers come up. Her radishes are happy. Her nasturtiums sprawl about in a manner I would normally describe as undisciplined, and they are absolutely beautiful. She reminded me — gently, without knowing she was doing it — that an allotment is not an exam. Nobody is giving you marks for neatness. You're growing food and flowers and joy. And sometimes joy is a bit wonky. I'm learning to make my peace with wonky.
3. Flowers Belong On An Allotment Just As Much As Vegetables Do
I'll hold my hand up here. For years my allotment was vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. Practical. Productive. Efficient. Flowers were for the garden at home. The allotment was a working plot, not a display garden. Iris looked at this philosophy and quietly decided it was wrong.
She started bringing seeds. Sunflowers. Cosmos. Sweet peas. She tucked them in along the edges of beds, between the brassicas, up the fence line. I was sceptical. Then the pollinators arrived. Then Sara started cutting bunches to bring home. Then I caught myself standing next to a six-foot sunflower on a September afternoon, feeling inexplicably cheerful about the world, and I thought — right. She had a point.
Flowers attract the beneficial insects. They feed the bees at a time when the bees need feeding. They make the whole plot feel like somewhere you want to be rather than somewhere you have to be. And if they happen to look absolutely gorgeous in a jug on the kitchen table, well. That's not nothing, is it?
4. Don't Be Afraid To Ask "Why Do We Do It That Way?"
This one stung a little, I won't lie. Iris has this habit — endearing in hindsight, occasionally alarming in the moment — of asking why. Why do we plant those out in May and not April? Why do we tie the beans that way? Why do we dig the bed over before winter? And sometimes I would explain, clearly and confidently, from decades of experience. And sometimes I would open my mouth and realise I was doing it that way because my dad did it that way, and his dad did it that way before him, and I'd never actually stopped to wonder if there was a better way.
Some of those old methods are old for a very good reason. They work. But some of them I've quietly revisited, and a couple I've quietly updated. Iris asking "why?" made me think more carefully about what I actually know versus what I've just always done. And that, as it turns out, is a very useful distinction for a sixty-year-old man to have pointed out to him by a teenager. I'm choosing to take it gracefully.
5. The Best Thing About The Allotment Is Being There Together
This is the big one. The one that snuck up on me.
I've always loved the allotment for what comes out of it. The satisfaction of a good harvest. The rows of jars that Sara fills and labels. The pride of growing something from seed to plate. The purpose of it all. And those things are real and they matter.
But Iris loves the allotment for what happens while you're on it. The conversations that start when your hands are busy with something else and your guard is completely down. The cups of tea leaning against the shed. The times Sam says something ridiculous and the three of us laugh until somebody nearly drops a trowel. The ordinary, unremarkable Tuesday afternoons that somehow become the ones you remember.
She taught me, that the growing is the excuse. The being there is the point.
So there we are. Five things I've learnt from Iris. I suspect there are more on the way, which I will accept with the quiet dignity of a man who is very happy to keep learning, as long as nobody makes too much of a fuss about it.
If you've got a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, or any young lady in your life who shows even a passing interest in growing things — nurture that. Get them on a plot. Give them a bit of space to do it their own way. And then try not to look too surprised when they start teaching you things.
Because they will. And it'll be the best lesson you never expected.
Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.
Comments
Post a Comment