Marrigols,Calandula And A Shy Fox

 Where do I even start this week. We've had a beetroot gathering, a flower border showing off like it's auditioning for something, a committee mystery that solved itself overnight without a single soul owning up to it, and — I promise I'm not embellishing for effect — a fox sat there watching us drink our tea like he'd been sent an invite and RSVP'd yes.

It's been a few days, ladies and gentlemen. Sit down, get a brew, and brace yourself.

Iris and the Great Beetroot Reveal

Thursday morning, we were all up the plot early before the sun got to high, which is so rare an event I nearly rang the local paper. Normally I'm the one up at silly o'clock while everyone else is tucked up enjoying a lie-in like sensible human beings. Iris had been lurking around the beetroot for days, lifting the leaves and having a nosy underneath like she was checking on a cake that wasn't quite ready to come out of the oven. And Thursday, bless her cotton socks, she struck gold. Six fat beetroot, hauled out triumphant and paraded round the plot like she'd just been handed a rosette at the county show.

I will tell you now, there is no such thing as pulling beetroot quietly. There's a noise it makes coming out of the ground — a proper satisfying little "pop" — and Iris insisted on doing all six one at a time purely so she could hear it again and again, like a toddler with a bit of bubble wrap. Sam just shook his head, muttered something about the pair of us needing a hobby, and got on with the watering, fully used to his dad and his sister losing their minds over a vegetable again.

Beetroot gets a rough deal, in my opinion, mostly from people who've only ever met it sliced and drowning in vinegar from a jar — no offence to the jar, we've all relied on the jar at some point. Roasted fresh, it's an entirely different vegetable, sweet and earthy, and about as forgiving as veg gets. Sow direct from April, thin the seedlings so they're not all elbowing each other for room, keep them watered when it's dry so they don't turn woody, and otherwise leave them well alone. They don't sulk if you forget them for a week, which is more than can be said for several other things on this plot, myself included some mornings.

This is also where the frugal bit kicks in, because beetroot is an absolute gift if you're trying to make a harvest stretch. Sara's already got the pickling jars rattling about — vinegar, sugar, spice, sliced cooked beetroot, sealed and shoved in the cupboard, and you've got something that'll see you through to next spring for the price of a few seeds and a splash of vinegar. She does a batch every year and it vanishes faster than she can make it, mostly because I keep "quality checking" it before it's properly cured. Somebody has to do it. I see it as a public service.

Raspberries Are Having a Moment

Down the other end, the raspberry canes have gone absolutely feral this year, in the nicest possible way.  Judging by the sheer number of green ones waiting in the wings, we're heading for a bumper crop the likes of which will require Tupperware diplomacy with the neighbours.

Raspberries, once settled, basically run themselves, which suits me down to the ground given everything else this allotment demands of my knees. Mine are summer-fruiting, so once they're done I'll cut the old canes to the ground — a job that takes about twenty minutes and saves a world of bother later. A decent mulch round the base in spring keeps things moist and the weeds throttled, and that, genuinely, is the whole job description.

The real skill, learnt the hard way, is picking them often. Leave it a day too long and either the birds have cleaned you out, or they've gone over and turned to jam in your hand before you've even got them home. Little and often, ideally before it warms up, otherwise you end up with a sort of raspberry soup situation in the bottom of the punnet. Most of ours never make it past the cane, if I'm honest — straight in the mouth, no ceremony, occasionally no hands washed first, don't tell Sara — but she's planning a jam once we've got enough to spare her temptation. There's nothing quite like your own raspberry jam on toast in February, reminding you that summer did, in fact, happen, and wasn't just a fever dream brought on by hay fever tablets.

French Marigolds — Tiny, Cheap, and Showing No Signs of Stopping

Now then, flowers. I do love a flower that earns its keep, and French marigolds are about as hardworking as they come, putting the rest of us to shame slightly. Compact, cheerful little things in orange, gold and that deep mahogany red, flowering their hearts out from June clean through to the first frosts without so much as a day off. They're proper budget flowers too — one packet of seed will give you more plants than you've got room for, which is exactly my kind of arithmetic.

Sow from seed in spring on a warm windowsill or in the greenhouse, prick out once they're big enough to handle, harden off, and plant out in late May once the frosts have had the decency to clear off. After that, that really is the entire instruction manual — full sun, soil on the leaner side, and a regular deadhead to keep them flowering rather than going to seed and getting ideas above their station. I tuck mine in among the tomatoes and beans, because they're meant to put off certain pests with that distinctive smell of theirs — whether that's solid science or allotment folklore I genuinely couldn't tell you, but they've never done any harm, and they look smashing while allegedly doing their bit. Cracking in pots by a back door too, if you've no plot to fuss over — sturdy, undemanding, and not remotely precious about being a bit pot-bound.

Calendula — The One We Couldn't Be Without

Calendula's the other one we'd never do without, and it's a proper family favourite — it's up both allotments and in the borders at home, which by now tells you everything about how this household operates. Sometimes called pot marigold, no relation whatsoever to the French ones despite sharing the name, calendula has that open, daisy-like face in warm oranges and yellows that just keeps coming all summer, practically begging to be picked and put somewhere it can be admired properly.

It's about the easiest thing I grow, full stop. Sow direct where it's to flower from March, no trays, no windowsills, no fuss, and it's blooming within weeks like it's got somewhere to be. It self-seeds happily too, so once you've grown it one year you'll find little surprises popping up in odd corners the next, quietly making itself a permanent member of the family — rather like a certain fox we'll be getting to in a moment, except calendula is considerably better behaved and nobody's onions have gone missing because of it.

It earns its keep beyond looking pretty, mind. The petals are edible, scattered over a salad for a splash of colour and a faint peppery kick, lovely stirred through plain rice or a summer soup if you fancy showing off slightly. It's also been used for centuries in skin salves, so if you're the crafty sort, dried petals infused in oil make a simple homemade balm, grand for hands that have had a hard day's digging. And as a cut flower it'll sit happily in a jam jar on the table for a week or more, which is roughly the limit of my floral arranging talents. Cheap, pretty, useful, and refuses to give up. I don't know what more you'd want from a flower, frankly.

The Water Pressure Mystery, Solved By Absolutely No One

You'll recall earlier in the week's moan about the committee strangling the water pressure to a dribble in the middle of a heatwave, while still expecting full membership fees next year for the privilege of watching a watering can fill in geological time. Well, I had a quiet word with one of the committee members, as politely as I could manage given the circumstances, and pointed out it seemed a touch rich.

The very next morning, pressure was back, strong as you like, cans filling in seconds rather than something approaching a small ice age.

Naturally I went round asking who'd sorted it. Nobody had touched a thing, apparently. Not one soul would own up to flicking so much as a switch. So either the allotment has acquired a water pressure poltergeist with impeccable comic timing, or somebody, somewhere, had a sudden and entirely anonymous change of heart. I have my suspicions. I shall say no more, other than: funny how things sort themselves out the moment a question gets asked out loud.

The Fox Who Came to Breakfast

And finally, the bit I've been saving, because it gave me a proper jolt. We've known there were foxes about for years — you get all the evidence and none of the culprit. Onions chewed off and yanked clean out for no reason anyone's ever worked out, potato beds turned over like a JCB's been at them, and let's just say their toilet habits aren't something I'll be detailing over breakfast, which is ironic given what's coming next.

Because this week, properly early, before most sensible people are even conscious, Sam and Iris both clocked him — sat a couple of plots away, dead still, watching us drink our tea like he'd been personally invited to the occasion. Iris reckoned he looked rather pleased with himself, the absolute cheek of it. They are stunning animals, genuinely, all that rich red-brown fur catching the morning light — right up until they decide your potato bed needs redecorating, at which point the appreciation drops off rather sharply.

 Has anyone else got fox trouble down their plot, and more to the point, has anyone found anything that's actually worked, or are we all just out here negotiating with wildlife and losing?

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.