15.07.20 — Story Time

Today I woke up and decided to go to the allotment. It has rained the past few weeks, meaning I haven’t been forced up the long steep climb from our house to water it. A welcome break. We hit it hard during the first weeks of lockdown and got the whole thing dug over and planted. I know it will be a mess and so I’ve been putting it off for the last week.

I walk up through all the other plots. Varying degrees of perfection. And there it is 21A. I kick myself. The netting has blow off the broccoli, it’s been decimated by sparrows. The spinach has gone to seed. The sweet peas have bloomed and died before I had a chance to pick them. Some courgettes are now marrows lying soggy and soft on the wet ground. My favourite blanket is soggy too. Soggy and full of woodlouse. The weeds are back in full force.

I continue my search, what else is fucked? And with this thought comes that familiar voice - you’ve failed. Wasted the things you worked so hard to grow.

I feel like leaving and stomping home down the hill. Instead I surprise myself by pushing the voice aside. I stay and make myself to look a little closer.

On inspection a big bramble yields a few blackberries. Sid loves them. He is happy. I look again, the artichoke plant I put in this year, almost eclipsed by Cooch grass, is growing its first big beautiful bulb.

Having noticed these two things noticing others becomes a lot easier.

The sunflower is almost ready to explode into yellow magnificence. Beans. They are hiding so deep within their leaves it would have been easy to miss them. French and borlotti, the runners are on their way.

Potatoes start the season off in neat military rows, this satisfies me. It appeals to the part of my mind that craves order. Now they have become a tangled mess of dying leaves. Far less pleasing to the eye but it means they are ready to dig. Little nuggets of gold that taste like butter. And finally on my walk back up the plot I notice flashes of purple amongst the weeds. One beetroot is ready to pick. It’s still small but I prefer them small, they taste sweeter.

I write this on my walk home, typing my thoughts as the come to me onto the notes of my phone. I often write whist I walk. I find it a good way to off-load too many thoughts and quieten a busy head. As I write an iPhone memory pings up, its a photo of a beetroot. It reminds me that Ben proposed to me on this day one year ago at the allotment. A happy coincidence that sparks joy. I continue typing.

I’ll not go back to correct what I’ve written. To polish and perfect, as is so often my way. 21 A teaches me that the best things can often be a bit of a mess. And that’s okay.