That’s it. The feeding is done. The winter beds are pretty much finalised – we have chosen to leave the two hazel beans structures up till the death, for aesthetics and seed saving, so the plot will mostly settle now for spring. The last few sunflowers are skeletal, there for height, for passing birds and confused bees. We will harvest the ‘Harlequin’ seed.
There are beds of flouncing chicories waiting for frost. Soon some will colour. Another bed is studded with chard: a mix of ‘Bright Lights’, a ruby stem and classic ‘Fordhook Giant’. There are rows of baby beets and radishes in a race against cooling soil. We have patches of autumn mizuna, mibuna, a few assorted Japanese mustards and pak chois. I have hopes we will eat more than the snails.
I have mostly given up on kale. The resident resentful pigeons seem to see it as incitement. And I am determined not to net the plot this year. It never made me happy. We have patches of American land cress and ‘Four Season’ winter salad. I scattered near-empty packets of other autumn leaves. Around us other allotments are wearing widow weeds, bare patches of earth spreading like a virus. For now, at least, we will fight it. I will be keeping the plot company as much as I can – though the clocks going back in a few weeks will kill off our evenings.
I will visit as to an elderly relative (more of that I fear next week); be dutiful, loyal.
The allotment is about much more for me than what it produces, though taking away a few handfuls of spiky, spicy leaves is making me very happy. It earths me, feeds me. I think of it as a friend who still needs me when the winter sun is low. The truth, of course, is that it is me who has the need – to nurture, to walk through memories. To grow.
Allan Jenkins’s Plot 29 (4th Estate, £9.99) is out now. Order it for £8.49 from guardianbookshop.com
