The Real Crop: Community and Care on the Allotment

 There’s a rule in our family, and it was never written down. It goes like this: nobody walks past Pat’s shed without saying hello.

I’d like to say I came up with it. I didn’t. It was Iris, aged fifteen at the time, who laid it down one muddy Sunday after watching her brother try to sneak past with a wheelbarrow.

Sam, a grown man with a mortgage-sized sense of responsibility, had spotted Pat by his shed door. He did what any of us would do if we were in a hurry and had a barrow full of horse manure. He put his head down, picked up speed and tried to go past like a man with somewhere very important to be.

“Morning, Sam!” came the voice from the shed.

Sam stopped, because you can’t not. And that was forty minutes of leeks. Forty minutes, I tell you. I know because I timed it, mostly out of sympathy and partly because I was hiding behind the compost bay having a quiet laugh. By the end Sam knew exactly how deep to dibble a leek, why you never rush a leek, and what Pat’s father used to say about leeks, which I won’t repeat here because this is a family blog.

When Sam finally got to us, manure going cold in the barrow, Iris looked at him very seriously and said, “That’s what you get.” Then she added, “You should have just stopped in the first place. He was waiting for you.”

She was right, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

The Real Crop

I’ve been on the plots a good while, and what I’ve noticed is that the allotment grows two crops. There’s the one you can put on a scale: the carrots and the onions and the pumpkins I keep giving away to anyone who stands still long enough. And then there’s the other one, which doesn’t fit in a trug at all.

That one’s the company.

Up our way there’s a lovely bunch of older gardeners who’ve been working their plots for decades. Some of them have been at it longer than I’ve been alive. Their backs aren’t what they were, and the digging has slowed from a brisk march to what I’d call a dignified amble, but they’re up there in all weathers. Rain, frost, wind, a bit of weak autumn sun, it makes no difference.

For a few of them, I’ve come to think, the plot isn’t really about the veg at all. Oh, they’ll tell you it is. They’ll tell you they’re after a few spuds and a bit of rhubarb. But look at how long they hang about by the shed. Look at how often a trowel gets picked up, studied and put down again. A man can only inspect one trowel for so long, and I reckon some of them are simply waiting for somebody to come past the fence.

Because here’s the thing we don’t always think about. When an older gardener packs up and heads home, what are they heading home to? For plenty of them it’s a quiet house. The kids have grown up and moved away, sometimes a long way away. The husband or wife who used to be across the table isn’t there any more. The telephone doesn’t ring as often as it should. There are people who can go a whole week without saying more than “thank you” to a till assistant.

For those folk, the allotment is far more than a garden. It might be the only place all week where somebody knows their name, asks after their back, and notices when they’re not there. The gate opens both ways. It lets the gardeners in, and it lets the company in with them.

I’m not saying that to be sad about it, mind. I’m a happy-go-lucky sort and I don’t do gloomy on the blog. But it’s worth knowing, because it costs nothing to do something about it.

What Pat Knows

Take old Pat. He’s my plot neighbour, and I wouldn’t like to say how many winters he’s seen through, but it’s a good few more than me. Pat lost his wife a few years back, and his family live miles away, so he’s on his own in the house now. But on the plot he’s never on his own for long, and I think that’s exactly how he likes it.

Pat can tell you how the soil behaves after a week of rain, because he’s watched it do it every year for decades. He remembers the winter the standpipes froze solid and everybody carried water up from home in buckets and bottles. He knows which apples will keep in a cold, dark shed until March and which will turn to brown slush by Christmas.

You can’t get that from a book. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve got a whole shelf of books, and not one of them mentions that Pat’s patch is a good two weeks behind mine because of the way the frost sits in the dip. That sort of thing only comes from a lifetime of standing in the same place, watching the same bit of ground.

I’m 60 now, and I like to think I know a few things. But next to Pat I’m a lad, and I never mind being reminded of it. When I stop for a natter, I’m not being kind. I’m being sensible. It’s the best free education going.

And he does like to give a tip, does Pat. Mostly the same ones, mind. If I’ve heard how to get brassicas through the winter once, I’ve heard it fifteen times. But I never mind hearing it a sixteenth, because every time he tells it there’s a new bit in the middle, a little extra detail he forgot before. It’s like a good song. You know the words and you still want to hear it. I suspect Pat likes telling it just as much as I like hearing it, and maybe that’s the point.

The Hard-Won Tip: Firm Your Brassicas In

Speaking of which, here’s a tip that’s pure Pat, though I only listened properly after learning it the hard way.

Firm your brassicas in, and earth them up, before the winter gales arrive.

Cabbages, kale, Brussels sprouts, purple sprouting, anything tall and leafy that’s going to stand out there all winter, they all catch the wind like a sail. A few seasons ago I had a lovely row of Brussels sprouts, tall and proud and doing beautifully. Then we had a proper autumn gale, the sort that has you checking the shed roof from the bedroom window at two in the morning. By the next day half of them were leaning over like tired drunks, and a couple had come clean out of the ground, roots and all.

What Pat told me, and what I ignored the first time, is that wind rock does the damage. The plant sways, the roots loosen in the soil, and then the first heavy rain finishes the job. So now, before the weather turns, we go along the rows and do three things:

1. Firm the soil around each plant. Press down with your boot heel, and don’t be shy about it. Brassicas like firm ground, and loose soil is exactly what they don’t want.
2. Earth up the stems. Pull some soil up around the base of each stem, a good few inches, so the plant is propped up and the roots are anchored.
3. Take off yellowing leaves. Anything that’s gone yellow or flopped on the ground goes in the compost bin. It stops rot setting in and lets the air move through.

That’s it. No chemicals, no gadgets, just a boot and a bit of effort. Ever since, my sprouts have stood through everything the winter has thrown at them, and I’m sure old Pat looks on with quiet satisfaction every time I walk past.

A word of warning, though. If you can’t be bothered to firm them in, don’t come crying to me in January. I’ll just point at Pat’s row, which will be standing as straight as soldiers.

The Time We Went Round

I’ll tell you the real reason I’ve been thinking about all this lately.

A few weeks back, Pat wasn’t up at his plot for most of a week. Now, that’s not unheard of. He’s got every right to take a few days off. But he’s the sort of man you notice by his absence. His shed door stayed shut, and his usual spot by the fence looked wrong without him.

It was Iris who said it first. “Dad, have you seen Pat?”

I said I hadn’t, and that I’d been wondering the same. And then it hit me. If Pat didn’t turn up, who would know? There’s no wife in the kitchen to say “you’ve not seen him for days”, and his family are too far away to pop round. The allotment gate was probably the only place anybody would notice he’d gone.

Iris, in the quiet practical way she has, said, “Shall we go and see he’s all right?”

So we did. Sam, Iris and me. We didn’t make a fuss, we just got in the car one afternoon after the plot, and Iris took a flask and a few slices of the bread I’d baked on the Saturday, wrapped in a tea towel. We knocked at the door, a bit nervous, not sure what we’d find.

And there was Pat, right as rain, or near enough. He’d had a stinking cold and hadn’t felt up to the walk, and he hadn’t wanted to bother anybody. He was a bit embarrassed to see us, and a lot pleased, and we sat in his front room with a cup of tea for the best part of an hour while he told us exactly what he thought of the weather, the council, and the price of seed potatoes. There was a photo of his wife on the mantelpiece, and he told us a story about her runner beans that had us all laughing.

When we left, he pressed a bag of apples into Iris’s hands. “Good keepers,” he said. “Keep ’em somewhere dark.” And then, at the door, a bit gruffly: “Thanks for coming.”

On the way home Iris said, “I’m glad we went.” And so was I. It cost us a flask of tea and an hour, and I’d say we got the better end of the deal.

Looking Ahead

So that’s my little thought for the week. As the nights draw in and the plots go quiet, make the effort to stop at the gate. Lean on the fence. Ask somebody how they are, and then listen to the answer. If a plot neighbour hasn’t been seen for a few days, don’t just wonder about it. Pick up the phone, or knock on the door. For some of the older gardeners, you may be the only conversation they have all day.

It costs nothing and it’s worth more than a bumper crop of carrots.

And do the brassicas, too. Firm them in. Pat’s watching.

Because I Can’t Resist a Recipe: Allotment Gate Cheese and Onion Loaf

As regular readers know, I’m a self-taught baker and I make the family’s bread every Saturday without fail. One of my favourites for taking up to the plots, or round to a neighbour who might appreciate a visit, is a good cheese and onion loaf. It’s honest, it’s filling, and it goes brilliantly with a flask of soup. It also uses up some of those onions that Sam keeps telling me we’ve grown far too many of.

Cheese and Onion Loaf (makes 1 large loaf)

Ingredients:

• 500g strong white bread flour
• 7g sachet fast-action yeast
• 1½ tsp salt
• 1 tsp sugar
• 2 tbsp olive oil or melted butter
• 320ml warm water
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• A knob of butter, for the onion
• 150g strong mature cheddar, grated (plus a little extra for the top)
• Black pepper

Method:

1. Soften the chopped onion in a knob of butter over a gentle heat until it’s sweet and golden, then leave it to cool completely. If it goes in hot, it’ll cook your yeast and you’ll have a very sad loaf.
2. Put the flour in a big bowl with the yeast on one side and the salt on the other. Add the sugar and a good grind of pepper. Pour in the oil and most of the warm water and mix to a rough dough, adding the rest of the water if it feels dry.
3. Tip it onto a lightly floured surface and knead for about ten minutes, until it’s smooth and stretchy. Don’t rush this bit. Put the radio on and enjoy it.
4. Flatten the dough out a little and scatter over the cooled onion and most of the cheese. Fold and knead it gently until it’s all worked in. Some will try to escape, so just push it back in.
5. Pop it back in the bowl, cover with a damp tea towel and leave somewhere warm for an hour or so, until it’s doubled in size.
6. Knock it back, shape it into a round or a tin loaf, and place it on a lined tray or in a greased tin. Cover and leave for another 30 to 40 minutes until puffy.
7. Sprinkle the last of the cheese on top and bake at 220°C (200°C fan) for 10 minutes, then drop the heat to 190°C (170°C fan) and bake for another 25 to 30 minutes. It’s ready when it’s golden and sounds hollow when you tap the bottom.
8. Cool on a wire rack for at least half an hour, though I’ll be honest, nobody in this house has ever managed it.

Eat it warm with butter, or wrap a thick slice in a tea towel and take it up the plots. Even better, take a second one for a neighbour. They’ll pretend they don’t need it, and then they’ll eat it in the shed when they think nobody’s looking. It also makes a very good excuse to knock on a door.

Over to You

Now, I’d love to hear from you. Has an allotment, or a garden, or a good fence ever brought you an unexpected friend? Have you got a Pat of your own, someone whose tips you’ve heard fifteen times and still wouldn’t miss? Is there an older neighbour you’ve been meaning to check in on? And does anyone else firm their brassicas in before the gales, or have I just been lucky?

Pop your thoughts in the comments. I read every one.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.