Waited out the wet yesterday (or at least that is what I told myself as I watched a rom-com on the telly). But around 4pm the rain finally seemed to slow, so I headed to the allotment with some radish seed in my pocket (it was a biodynamic 'root' day and I was keen to catch up). I was also suffering from unspoken, underlying guilt as we had spent most of the weekend at the summerhouse (where at least it was summer) and I don't want the plot to feel there is a newer rival vying for my affections. It is not like that...
The summerhouse is in an isolated 1500sqm space where we are planting trees, wildflower meadow and rugosa (see above the wild rugosa growing on the beach at the bottom of our lane). Whereas the plot is a small secret urban space which almost embarrasses you with its gifts. Want a herb bed? All you have to do is ask. Plant a few thin rows of seed and within weeks, you have an abundance of parsley, corriander, dill, fennel. Fancy a few Oriental leaves for supper? In a month, you could feed the red army on pak-choi, choi-san and giant mustards. The same goes for salads, calendula, kales, corn, beans (though perhaps not heritage peas).
Where else in the inner city (or your life) can you lose yourself for hour after hour on your knees in heavy rain, happy to your core, despite the seed packets turning to wet tissue paper, despite the mud, despite any great efforts of your own, lost in surrender and the mystery that is seed-growing.
