Farewell, Allotment...

And so yesterday Andy returned the allotment key to Plot 87 to the allotment committee secretary and we became ex-allotmenteers.

I felt a bit traitorous. Like I'd let down our vision of living the good life. Like I'd failed to manage other areas of my life in an efficient way in order to make 'time-room' to keep the allotment going. But really, after six years we've done the right thing. We both work full time, in stressful jobs. We both have other hobbies that take up our weekends. We have a house and garden to take care of, and three bee hives too, which are already showing signs of going crazy again this year. And we've learned a lot about growing our own.

What could I have sacrificed for the allotment? Writing? No way - writing makes me happy. Writing is what I do, first and foremost (Darn...if only I could make it pay!!). Reading? Nope. I love reading. I'd be a rubbish English teacher if I didn't read. Arty-crafty stuff? Well, that's sporadic as it is, and I want to do more of it.

No. The allotment grew too time consuming....

However....

...in our garden at home we have rhubarb growing and the transplanted gooseberry bushes are full of leaf. The raspberry canes are looking okay. The jury is out on the grape vines but we live in expectation. The hops and the herbs are putting on fresh growth. The apple and the damson and the nut trees are in leaf and blossom and baby catkin. And there are seeds planted up in the greenhouse - flowers and tomatoes. And Andy has made a new veg bed next to the herb garden. He has planted beetroot and spinach, broccoli and cabbage and something else, he can't remember what. The veg bed is netted and fenced against Les Mademoiselles Poulets who in turn are looking quite keen to un-net and fence it.

This weekend bean seeds will go in, and courgettes and lettuce. As they grow they will live in pots around the front of the house, turing the concrete oasis of our driveway into a lush forest of green and heaven help any of the local yobs who try and tamper with our runners.

And so we are carrying on! Not as allotmenteers, but as cottage gardeners. Which, quite frankly, I prefer the sound of. It suggests the need to wear a large floppy hat, and Victorian-style bloomers, and wander around snipping at things with lady-like scissors and depositing them in a nice little willow basket carried casually across my arm. It suggests gentle pottering rather than hefty slogging, genteel faffing rather than sweaty huffing.

I like that we have everything on site so we can keep an eye on it. If something is looking droopy, we can nip out and water it there and then. We can catch weeds as they happen rather than giving them a week's growth from Monday to Friday. And if we want to spend a day gardening, we have loo and tea and biscuits on hand rather than two miles across the other side of a busy town.

No more clearing up takeway debris that foxes have stolen from bins and spread across our plot on a Saturday night. No more fretting that we can't get to the allotment to water everything when we have a dry spell. No more listening to the comments of allotment neighbours (all retired and time-rich) who say things like, 'Haven't seen you here for a while.' No more missing perfect picking moments of the soft fruit and salad stuff.

It's not all bad.

One day we'll have a bigger garden. But for now, our little garden will do.

I just love it...

... when I arrive home from work, walk up the path, and see bees from our hive spiralling up and over the back gate as they disappear on another foraging adventure.

...when I stand awhile and watch as bees from our hive plunge from the skies back towards their hive, their little back legs shining with pollen bags like over-filled thimbles.

...when I head to the front door and pause a while at the lavender shrub I planted last year, in full bloom now and peppered with (this afternoon) seven bumblebees and a honey bee, bouncing and feasting and having a high old pollen-gathering time.

...when I open the front door, and three cats are sitting on the mat, awaiting my arrival. With a ball for me to throw.

...when I go into the back garden, and the beans and tomatoes have grown another inch since this morning, and the hops have grown another foot since this morning, and the apple tree has put up many baby apples this year, far more than last.

...when I see the hens sitting side by side on their roosting bar, eyes half closed, feathers loose and puffed towards the sun.

...when I open the pent-house suite and find three eggs waiting - one speckled, one brown and one a pearlescent white, and I know exactly which hen laid which.

...when I check the lettuce I planted only four days ago, and see little specks of green emerging like emerald dots in a brown earth sky.

...when I glance at the newly planted bulb border, with shoots already several inches high, and think forward to the time when gladioli and iris jostle their colours for position.

...when I settle down with a cup of tea and remember, with a smile, of the magical time this afternoon when the Headteacher marched into my Year 8 class with an important visitor, just at the point when one of the students responded to my question of 'So why do you think the character we've just read about behaved like that?' with 'Because he's pissed off and he's a twat.'

...when it's all quiet now, no TV, a new book (or two) by my side, and a whole evening of companiable R and R ahead of me, with my hubbie at my side.

May you have moments this week that you just love too!

Exit stage right, pursued by a bee...

As you can see from the picture on the right we have had visitor number 1 to our embryonic bee garden. It was a big fat bumble bee which very obligingly flew by the willow tree this morning as we were heading out the front door. It stopped and posed like a true celebrity as Andy and I leapt around with our mobile phones taking pictures.
'Look!' I squealed. 'A bee on our bee friendly tree!'
'Yes,' said Andy. He didn't sound that excited but I suppose when you've spent your life living with a bee in your ear, the novelty of bees can wear a bit thin.
'We've provided a bee with its breakfast!' I squealed.
'I'd have preferred a couple of sausages and a fried egg,' said the bee.
'How exciting is that!' I squeal again (you get the idea now that I'm v.excited by this sudden bee activity.)
'Because I've been hibernating all winter and to be honest, a bit of willow pollen is hardly going to fill the gap, is it?' said the bee.
'I need to get the other plants in,' I said to Andy. 'Start building up the borders.'
'So if you're going to be providing a new B & B service for us bees,' said the bee, 'can I suggest you have a look at your menu? Did you notice the cunning word play on the letter 'b', by the way?'
'I'll plant the lavender and foxgloves tomorrow,' I say.
'Sod lavender and foxgloves,' said the bee. 'Listen will you? Crumpets, that's what we want. Or muffins. Something nice and stodgy to fuel us up after the winter. Or toast. Toast is good. But no Marmite.'
'And I'll get the lupin and hollyhock seeds in,' I continue. 'I know it says on the packet not to plant them until April but I can bring on the seedlings in the 'conservatory, now I've cleared the decks and have got some inside growing space.'
'Or black pudding,' said the bee. 'Bees don't like black pudding. And if you're going to do a full English, make sure the bacon isn't too crispy and that you double up on the fried slice.'

I skip off down the path, happy with the bee pictures we've captured.

'Oi!' shouted the bee. 'I haven't finished with you yet. We haven't discussed tog ratings for the duvets or the morning paper service.'

'Did you hear something?' I asked.
'Only the bee in my ear,' said Andy.

The Bee Friendly Garden and the Mystery of the Extra Egg

Firstly, because I've just been to see the chickens with their daily apple ration (it's good for their teeth) I need to share with you that they appear to have lain 5 eggs between them today. Yes, five. Four hens = five eggs. Not quite sure how that works. When I put them to bed last night at 6 p.m, there were no eggs in the nest box. This morning when I took them tea and crumpets at 6.30 there were two eggs, and now, at lunchtime, to my surprise I've collected three more. So in less than 18 hours they've made 5 eggs!! Looking at the colours of the shells I think Mrs Pumphrey may be today's cor blimey champion chicken. Or possibly Mrs Slocombe. Phew! Or maybe there has been a visit from a stray hen. Or a phantom hen. Perhaps Mrs Bennett has returned and popped out one from beyond the grave. A ghost egg. There's a story in there somewhere....

Anyway, bees and flowers. We've got the hens, we've got the allotment and the next logical step is keeping bees. Andy has persuaded me that the neighbours won't like us any more if we get pigs. The pigs, he says, will have to wait until we get our small holding/farm/field. So it's back to bees.

We had an idea (Plan A) to dig up both front and back gardens chez nous and put down some more veg beds. But the more I think about this idea, the more dubious I feel about the practicalities. For one, all the local cats will think toilet heaven has arrived. And I don't trust the local kids not to hop over the wall and indulge in a spot of mindless vandalism (I wouldn't mind if they pinched a few carrots in order to eat them, but what are the chances of that being their motive??). Plus, the front garden is north-west facing so doesn't get a huge amount of warmth and sunlight. So I'm working on Plan Bee.

Plan Bee is to make a bee friendly garden. This is important because we need bees and bees are struggling at the moment and need all the help they can get. After much lobbying by the bee-keeping community, the Government have at last agreed to increase funding into research into bee diseases but until progress can be made into what caused so many swarms to be wiped out last year, we all need to do what we can to encourage bees into our gardens and ensure they continue to thrive to pollinate our fruit and veg.

So, I'm removing all the old shrubs from the front garden that we inherited from the previous owner and I'm going to replace them with plants that will benefit bees. Pretty plants, plants with glorious scents that make you bury your nose in their petals and take a deep sniff and 'WATCH OUT FOR THE BEE!'

I did make a start on the border last autumn, when a morning of light pruning turned into a whole day of Indiana Jones-type undergrowth decimation. But I need to get to grips with the old rose bushes that are way past their best and the roots of shrubs that, judging by the bit of experimental tugging I tried, have their roots encased in concrete. And I'll leave the magnolia bush that Andy bought me as a gift a couple of years ago(and it is a bush, Andy, NOT a tree. It won't get any bigger than it is. I know you're disappointed about this, but if you want a tree, you have to read the label and buy a tree and not a bush!), and the shrub under which is buried Tybalt's sister, Lilith, who died last year. But everything else is going.

My son, Chris, who works in a garden centre and knows a bit about gardening, popped in to visit this morning. I said, 'How would you go about getting rid of all those rose bushes and shrub roots?' I thought, cunningly, 'If I'm lucky, he'll say, 'It's okay Mum, I'll pop round next week on my week off and dig them out for you.' Unfortunately, taking a subtle hint is not one of his strong points so all I got was a detailed lecture on what chemicals to use and when to use them. Ah well, at least Heather will get a laugh when she reads this and marvels at my naiive optimism!

I'm also wondering if we can squeeze a polytunnel in the back garden. I run the idea by Mrs Miggins.
'Oooh yes,' she says. 'It'd be like having the Eden Project on our doorstep.'
'If you fill it with sand and a paddling pool, it'll be like Saint Tropez,' adds Mrs Slocombe and, as I look at her more closely, it does seem as if she has pecked her feathers into the shape of a chicken bikini.
'I was thinking about using it for tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers,' I say. 'You won't be allowed in, I'm afraid, not after what you've done to the lawn.'
'In that case, I think it's a very poor idea,' says Miggins. 'How about a jacuzzi instead?'