I have good hands (not as in pretty, though they once appeared in a glossy magazine shoot). And no, I don’t mean I am practical. Anything much past banging in a nail and I call in one of my daughters or for hired help.
I mean I think I have green fingers – plants (mostly) seem to want to grow for me. It has always been so, though I am, of course, careful in choosing seed growers and varieties. I look after the soil and, aside from a weakness with oversowing, I put in the work.
You see, I like hoeing and weeding, so no-dig doesn’t appeal, and watering makes me madly happy, though, like anyone else, I’ll prefer spraying with a hose to endless walks with heavy cans. I also follow a lunar planting calendar, though I doubt I could find an intellectual reason to support it. It just works for me (and Jane at Fern Verrow biodynamic farm, which is all the justification I feel I need).
The problem is, if I leave the plot for anything longer than a weekend, I feel guilty (abandonment is a bit of a thing for me). It feels as though I am letting down a confused friend who might not understand.
It’s the same with flowers and food. I always sow tagetes, calendula and nasturtiums (constancy is another thing). I always grow a few poles of peas and beans. They’ll always be the colour and taste of summer for me.
I never garden with gloves, even when handling manure. I need to feel the soil through my fingers. I enjoy getting dirt under my nails – though I draw the line at handling big brambles or rambling roses.
Newish research appears to show that getting your hands dirty may increase serotonin levels. This much I don’t know. But I need the feeling it gives me of being connected to land.
Allan Jenkins’s Plot 29 (4th Estate, £9.99) is out now. Order it for £8.49 from guardianbookshop.com
