I have something of the hoarder, like an old bachelor found buried under stacks of books and papers. Yet with me it is always seed.
I am determined this year to face it: my demon of addiction. So today I spent three hours gathering bags and packets of seed, scattered throughout the house; in the kitchen, living room, bedroom, in bowls and boxes. First, sorting them into manageable types: ‘fruit’, such as beans, peas, squash and courgettes; ‘leaf’, which were mainly assorted salads and cooking greens; ‘root’, such as radishes and beetroots of assorted hues; and ‘flower’ – crazed amounts of nasturtiums, tagetes, calendula and poppies. There is even a special category for Italian chicories.
I discard anything much out of date. I do this most years, but still find a dozen or more dating back to 2012. I am almost ruthless. I nearly fill a bin. But somehow I can’t bring myself to throw the Wild Garden Seed from Oregon, some in 1 oz packets of seasonal salad mixes and beautiful beet leaves – this for a piece of land not much bigger than a bedroom.
Seeds I haven’t grown for a few years – or ever – are next to go, though I save the mallow, larkspur, borage and salvia for Kala’s garden.
I’d like to say it is liberating, but I know I’ll likely never pass a rack of seed without feeling a greedy need to buy more. There is a large package of assorted flower and golden bacau bean seed on its way from a small co-op in Slovenia. For that, I blame the internet.
There are potatoes chitting (Arran Pilot and Red Duke of York: both first earlies), ready to go in, and sweet peas growing in Jane Scotter’s Hereford greenhouse. Our hazel poles are being cut, I hope.
Soon the seed bag will migrate to its summer home in the allotment shed. There are leaves and peas to grow, flowers to love.
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