Dad's Greenhouse and a Wheeled Hoe

 Some jobs you do because they need doing. And some jobs you do because, somewhere underneath all the screws and the swearing, there's something that matters a lot more than the job itself. This week's big one was very much the second kind.

Sara and I finally stripped the glass out of Dad's old greenhouse.

Now, I'd been putting this off. Not because it was difficult — although it absolutely was — but because there's a funny sort of weight to taking apart something that belonged to someone who isn't here to see you do it. That greenhouse has been standing where it was for more years than I care to count, and every pane of glass in it has seen more tomatoes ripen than I've had hot dinners. Taking it down felt like it needed doing properly, with a bit of respect, rather than just yanked apart on a Tuesday afternoon because it was in the way.

The screws, however, had no interest in respect whatsoever. When i put that frame together — and I have my suspicions, because I recognise the handiwork — did not believe in making life easy for the next generation. We spent the best part of an hour on our knees with a screwdriver each, having what I can only describe as a long and largely one-sided conversation with rusted metal. Sara was magnificent. I was less magnificent and said several words under my breath that I'd rather Iris hadn't heard, although given she wasn't there, I think I got away with it. By the end, we had a small mountain of glass panes leant carefully against the fence, a frame that looked rather sorry for itself, and two pairs of knees that have filed a formal complaint.

Once the glass was out, the frame got the full power-wash treatment — years of green garden grime sluiced off in about twenty minutes flat, which felt like cheating after the hour we'd just spent fighting the screws. And then, the bit that actually mattered: we walked it over and set it down on its new base, right next to the new greenhouse. Side by side. The old next to the new. I stood back and had a proper look at it for a minute, and I won't pretend that was just sweat in my eyes.

Dad would have had something to say about the location, mind you. Probably that I'd put it three inches too far to the left. He always had an opinion on placement. I'd give a great deal to hear it again, even the bit where he tells me I've got it wrong.

Right. Before this turns into something altogether too soggy for a Saturday morning read, let me tell you about the rest of the week, because the weather decided to behave itself for once and we made the absolute most of it.

Me, Sam and Iris had the plots properly gone over from top to bottom — every bed, every path edge, the lot. With the sun finally putting some effort in, the weeds had clearly taken that as their cue to throw a party of their own, and we weren't having it. Three of us, three sections, heads down, and a genuinely satisfying amount of green stuff in the barrow by the end of it. There's a particular kind of quiet that settles over an allotment when everyone's just getting on with it — no chat, just the scrape of tools and the odd bird having a go overhead — and I rather love that quiet. 

A fair chunk of that ground clearance came courtesy of my wheeled hoe, and honestly, if you don't own one of these, I'd urge you to find a way to get your hands on one. Push it along between the rows, let the blade do the work, and watch a strip of weeds disappear without you having to bend your back even once. At sixty, with a body that's already filed its own complaints over the years, anything that saves the spine gets my full endorsement. It made short work of ground that would have taken three times as long on hands and knees, and that's time I'd much rather spend looking at what's actually growing.

And what's growing is starting to look rather lovely, if I say so myself. The sweet peas are properly away now, scrambling up their canes and bringing the bees in by the dozen, and the borage along the edge of the plot has turned into something close to a small motorway for them — constant traffic, all day long, and not one of them in a hurry. I stood with a cup of tea the other afternoon just watching them work, which is either a very peaceful way to spend ten minutes or a sign I need more hobbies. Possibly both. The poppies have opened too, that brilliant papery red that never quite looks real until you're standing next to it, and between those and the sweet peas the plot's started to smell properly of summer rather than just damp soil and ambition.

With it being so warm, our tea breaks have got considerably longer this week, and considerably more philosophical. Thursday's big topic, debated at length over biscuits, was IBC tanks. There's a fellow on the site who apparently sells them off cheap — great big things, holding around a thousand litres apiece — and the three of us spent a good twenty minutes working out whether one of those, parked somewhere sensible, might finally solve our long-running water woes. We covered logistics, positioning, how on earth you'd get one onto the plot, and at one point Sam was sketching a rough plan on the back of an old seed packet. Nothing's decided yet, but I rather suspect we'll end up with one. A thousand litres of free rainwater, sat there waiting, is a hard thing to talk yourself out of once you've had a biscuit and a think about it.

Back at home, Sara and I had a proper little project of our own going on the side — we pulled the old benches out of what used to be the original greenhouse and gave them a complete makeover. Sanded down, cleaned up, and painted black to match the staging in the new greenhouse. There's something rather satisfying about taking a bit of old, scruffy timber that's been sat there doing nothing useful and turning it into something that looks like it belongs. Cost us a tin of paint and an afternoon, and we've saved ourselves the price of new staging. If you've got old shelving, crates, or benches knocking about, don't be too quick to bin them — a coat of paint and a bit of patience goes a long way, and it's the sort of frugal little win that makes the whole week feel that bit more accomplished.

Speaking of making things go further — with the courgettes starting to come through and more on the way, this is the week I always start thinking about freezing the surplus before it gets out of hand. Grate it, squeeze out the excess water in a clean tea towel, bag it flat, and into the freezer it goes. Come winter, you can pull out a bag and have it through a bolognese or a loaf without anyone the wiser that it's months old. It's the kind of small habit that's saved us a fair bit of money over the years, one courgette at a time.

So there we are. A greenhouse given a proper send-off and a proper new spot, a plot weeded within an inch of its life, bees getting their fill of borage, a long-running debate about water tanks, and two old benches that look better now than they probably ever did. Not a bad week's work, all told.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.