What Sam and Iris Are Actually Planning (Whether I Like It or Not)

 I usually write these posts as the one steering the ship. But this week, on the walk back from the plot, Sara turned to me and said, "You know, you talk an awful lot about what you're growing. What about what those two are growing?" And she's right. Sam and Iris put in as many hours up there as I do, sometimes more, and they've both got very firm opinions about what should be going in the ground next. So this week, I'm stepping back a bit and letting my co-stars take the wheel. Mind you, "letting" them is a generous word for what actually happened, because there wasn't much letting involved. There was more of a hostile takeover.

The Great Winter Bed Debate

It started, as most of our disagreements do, over a cup of tea and a scrap of paper. I'd sketched out a rough plan for the winter beds — nothing fancy, just my usual system of rotating the brassicas away from where the onions had been, tucking the garlic in where the beans had finished, that sort of thing. I've done it more or less the same way for years, and it's never let me down.

I laid it on the table like I was presenting state secrets. Sam looked at it for about four seconds before saying, "That's the same plan as last year." Which, to be fair, it basically was.

Iris, meanwhile, had already produced her own version, drawn in coloured pencil with actual arrows on it, and I have to admit, it looked considerably more professional than mine. Her argument was that we've had the brassicas in the same corner two years running because it's sheltered from the wind, but the soil there is starting to show it — she'd noticed the winter cabbages struggling a bit more than they should, and she reckons we need to properly rotate this time, not just shuffle things one bed along and call it a rotation.

Sam's contribution to the discussion was mostly about paths. He's convinced our winter beds would be far more manageable if we widened the paths between them so the wheelbarrow doesn't get bogged down every time it rains, which, if you've ever tried pushing a barrow full of manure through ankle-deep Lincolnshire mud in November, you will understand is not a small complaint.

So there we stood, two generations of the same stubborn family, each with a different coloured pen, arguing about paths and brassicas for the best part of forty minutes, while a robin sat on the fence watching us like we were the most entertaining thing it had seen all week. In the end, we landed somewhere in the middle, as we usually do. Iris's rotation won, because frankly she was right and I don't mind admitting when I'm outgunned by a seventeen-year-old with coloured pencils. Sam got his wider paths on the two beds nearest the water butt. And I got to keep my garlic exactly where I wanted it, which felt like a fair trade given I'd lost the other two arguments.

If you're planning your own winter beds this year, take it from three people who nearly fell out over it — don't just repeat last year's plan because it's easy. Walk the plot, have a proper look at what struggled and where, and if you've got someone in the family with strong opinions and a coloured pencil, let them have their say. Ours turned out to have a point.

Sam's Crop of Choice: Going Big on Squash

Once the bed argument was settled, Sam announced what he actually wants to grow more of next year, and it didn't surprise me one bit — squash. Proper big winter squash, the kind you can barely lift with one hand, butternut and a crown prince variety he's had his eye on since he saw one at a show last autumn.

Sam's reasoning is entirely Sam. He likes that you plant it, more or less leave it to sprawl across half the plot doing its own thing all summer, and then in autumn you're rewarded with something the size of a small dog that keeps for months in the shed without any fuss. Low effort, long reward — that's Sam's kind of vegetable, and I can't really argue with the logic.

He's already been reading up on it properly though, which I was pleased to see, because squash isn't quite as lazy a crop as he thinks. It wants a hungry bed — dig in plenty of well-rotted manure or compost before you plant, because these things are greedy feeders and they'll sulk in poor soil. Sow the seed indoors in April or early May, one seed to a pot on its side (apparently this stops water sitting on top and rotting the seed, a trick Sam picked up and was rather smug about knowing before me), and don't rush them outside until all frost danger has passed and the soil's properly warmed, usually late May or into June round here.

Once they're planted out, give them room — a good metre and a half between plants, because they will use every inch of it and then ask for more. Keep them well watered, especially while the fruits are swelling, and slide a bit of slate or a tile under each developing squash so it isn't sitting directly on damp soil, which stops it rotting from underneath. Come autumn, you leave them on the plant as long as possible to properly harden their skins in the sun, which is what gives you that lovely long storage life.

Iris has taken to calling this Sam's "one crop, minimal effort, maximum bragging rights" strategy, which I think is a fairly accurate summary of my son as a gardener and possibly as a person.

Iris's Crop of Choice: Sweet Peas and a Cutting Patch

Iris's answer, when I asked what she wanted to champion next, came without a second's hesitation. Sweet peas. Lots of them. She's decided that next year she wants a proper dedicated cutting patch — not just a row tucked along the fence like we've always done, but a whole bed given over entirely to flowers she can cut and bring in the house, or better yet, sell in little bunches at the allotment gate on a Saturday morning.

I'll admit, my first thought was that a cutting patch takes up space we could use for veg. My second thought, about half a second later, was that this is exactly the kind of thinking that's kept our plot looking rather plain compared to some of the others down there, and that a sixteen-year-old wanting to grow beautiful things and maybe make a bit of pocket money from them is not something I should be standing in the way of. So the cutting patch is happening.

Sweet peas are a lovely thing to grow if you've never tried, and cheap as anything for the display you get back. Iris starts hers in root trainers in a cold frame in autumn, which gives you sturdier plants and earlier flowers than spring sowing, though spring works perfectly well too if you'd rather. Nick or soak the seed first to help it along, because that outer coat can be stubbornly hard. Once they're up and growing, pinch out the growing tip when they've got three or four sets of leaves — feels like a crime against a plant you've nurtured from nothing, but it forces them to bush out properly rather than growing one long leggy stem, and you'll get far more flowers for it.

They want something to climb, so a wigwam of canes or a proper row of netting, and they're hungry and thirsty plants once they get going, so don't skimp on the compost at planting time. And here's the bit that matters most if you want flowers all summer rather than just a fortnight in June — pick them. Constantly. Every stem you cut is a stem that isn't going to seed, and a sweet pea plant left to set seed will simply shut up shop and stop flowering. Iris has taken to going round with a jam jar of water every single morning before school, and the more ruthlessly she cuts, the more the plants seem to reward her for it.

She's already talking about which colours she wants — something in the old-fashioned scented varieties, not the modern ones bred for size that have lost their perfume along the way, which I think shows rather good taste for someone who's spent most of her life around the veg patch rather than the flower bed.

The Polytunnel Question

Now, I'll bring up the one where the three of us genuinely don't agree, because I promised myself I'd write these posts honestly, warts and all. Sam and Iris have been on at me for a good few weeks now about putting up a polytunnel at the allotment. Their argument isn't a bad one — it would give us a longer growing season, somewhere to start things off earlier and keep tender crops going later, and frankly a bit more shelter on the days when the wind comes straight up the gardens and tries to take your hat clean off your head.

I'm just not there yet, and here's why. I've got a fair bit on at home at the minute. We're in the middle of a proper garden revamp — new fencing going in, old sheds are being taken down and new ones going to go up, and I'm reorganising the greenhouses, including finding a new home for Dad's old greenhouse, which as regular readers will know is not a job I'm rushing, because that greenhouse means a lot to me and I want it done properly, not bodged in an afternoon because I was trying to squeeze in a polytunnel at the same time.

So my answer to Sam and Iris, for now, is "let me get through this lot first." It's not a no. It's a not yet. There's only so many projects one workshop technician with dodgy knees can take on at once, and I'd rather do the home garden properly and then give the polytunnel the attention it deserves, than rush both and make a mess of everything. They weren't thrilled, but they've accepted it, mostly because I pointed out that a wonky polytunnel put up in a hurry is worse than no polytunnel at all, and neither of them could argue with that.

Right, Over to You

So there it is — Sam chasing squash the size of dogs, Iris turning us into flower farmers one jam jar at a time, and a polytunnel debate that's been quietly simmering for weeks. It's a funny thing watching your kids develop their own way of doing things on ground you've worked for years. Some of it I'd never have thought of myself, and I'm quietly rather proud of that.

I'd love to know — has anyone else had a proper family disagreement over the winter beds, or handed over a bit of the plot to let your kids or grandkids run their own patch their own way? And more to the point, is anyone else team polytunnel or team "finish the greenhouse first"? Let me know in the comments, I could do with the moral support.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot